


Scars

by Shaish, Stringlish



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Agender Steve, As in he's a Wreck, Asexual Steve, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Bucky becomes Captain America after Steve falls from the train, Canon Divergence, Captain America Bucky, Dark, Depression, F/M, Gen, I love Natasha, I'll add more tags as this progresses, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kinda, Loss of Limbs, Lots of Hurt, M/M, Memory Loss, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Pain, Russian lullabies, Sam Wilson is an angel, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, Steve becomes the Winter Soldier instead of Bucky, Steve is Fucked Up, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Violence, Winter Soldier Steve, With Capitals, bless him, kind of, lots of pain, non-descriptive non-con, steve falls instead of bucky, vague non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:04:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 59,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5423309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaish/pseuds/Shaish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stringlish/pseuds/Stringlish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve fell in 1944, instead of Bucky, but the world needed Captain America.</p><p>Or; Some ghosts haunt us, even when they're alive, and sometimes we wish they'd died. It would have been kinder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys! So this is. Um. This is probably going to get pretty dark? ?? And it _does_ have some fairly implied non-con/past non-con/rape in it. I'm not going to write out the scenes specifically, but there will be mentions and some memory-related things that mention them/some brief specifics of them at some point. Also, Kay is betaing this for me! Bless.  <3 And putting up with all of my indecision fjdsklfdjsl. Aaaaand...yeah! Each chapter is going to be a good, biggish size, and currently I've got about three? Total? In my head. I can't guarantee a happy ending because I don't know _how_ it's going to end yet, but it won't end bad. I don't like bad endings or sad endings or terribly tragic endings. I like lights at the end of my tunnels, bros. So I don't know if it'll end _happy_ (do any of mine though? Really? ??? Unless my definition of happy is skewed, which it probably is. What are emotions), but it won't end bad. And it's going to be long. I wanted to hold off posting any of it until I had it ALL done but I have no chill and I'm impatient and excited. !!!
> 
> So for those of you who do end up reading this, I hope you like it. And for those of you who read Ghosts; this is not the same thing. None of my stories, to my understanding, are the same, even when they deal with similar subject matter. They tall take turns into their own directions. So while this _is_ a Winter Soldier Steve, it is not going to be near the same Steve as the one in Ghosts. This one is a _lot, lot, **lot**_ more broken. But, hopefully, he'll reach the point I'm hoping he'll reach by the end of it. We'll have to see!
> 
> P.S. If you read vampire or werewolf, I don't think vampire is going to get finished by Christmas because it's taken a turn to be potentially kind of lengthy and I like that and want to try doing that, and I don't know if werewolf will finish before Christmas but I'm going to try in between writing this and hopefully working on witch!Bucky and my fanfiction!Black Widow Movie story thing. I'm trying not to stress too much about it fjdskl. Thank you!
> 
> P.p.s There is a song I linked in the story itself, and it's the youtube link. I know it probably looks ugly there, but I don't really know how to link things in words and I don't want to stick it up here where people might forget it's a thing. So it's in the scene that it goes with. I _heavily_ recommend listening to it with the scene because it makes it extra creepy. And I'm sorry about the parallel section not matching up at the beginning. Formatting has not caught up with my desires.

Scars

_Let it go. Why don’t you be you and I’ll be me._

_Let the ashes fall, forget about me._

_Come on let it go, just let it be._

“He’ll-” he chokes out, light blinding from above, “He’ll come for me- He always comes-”

“ _Your friend?_ ” a voice- Zola asks _(tinny, far away- Radio?),_ “ _I’m afraid not, Captain_.”

“ _He’ll come,_ ” Steve says, firm as he can, trying to pull at the restraints, arms and legs bound, “ _He always does_.” Bucky’s come for him through it all, through everything, even after Zola had _him_.

He’ll come.

The sound of paper rustling. Steve can’t see, can’t do anything but pull at bindings that won’t give and stare up into the bright light shining down, a mockery of church on Sundays that his ma used to take him to. Any other parts of the room are black in his periphery, like Hell prowling, ready to nip at his heels and claw at his flesh, tear him _apart._

Bucky will come before it’s too late. He _always_ does _._

 _Rustling_ -

A newspaper comes into view, shading his face from the light, and Steve squints, blinking a few times to try and focus-

Bucky’s face stares back. Steve looks up at the headline.

_HOWLING COMMANDO JAMES BARNES GOES DOWN WITH ENEMY PLANE, SAVES ENTIRE EASTERN SEABOARD_

A choking sound-

It’s coming from him.

The newspaper is yanked back and Steve’s blinded again, eyes squeezing shut on the sting _._

“ _He’ll come_ ,” Steve repeats, voice shaking, just a little, sounding like he’s five again and denying his father’s not coming back from the war- “ _Bucky’ll **come**_.” It only feels like defeat after he says the name, like it shouldn’t be uttered here, _like it’s what they were waiting for_ -

“ _I’m so sorry, Captain_ ,” Zola’s voice says, falsely, sweetly sympathetic, “ _But your Sergeant is dead and you have no one now, no one but us_.”

Steve shakes his head.

“ _And didn’t you notice?_ ” Zola asks, “ _You cannot run away_. _Those legs would not take you far_.”

“What?” Steve asks, turning his head as much as he can, trying to look down at- He’s not sure. “What do you- What do you mean?” he struggles. And now that he’s becoming more self aware, he can feel the material around his chest, stomach, from his right shoulder down to his hips, the _pain_ from struggling.

_Bandages?_

“Should I tell him?” another voice asks; male, heavily accented, _calm_.

Zola replies with something in German that Steve can’t quite understand and then there’s the brief _static_ of a radio cutting out. Steve hears someone moving around and nothing- no _one_ else.

The sound of footsteps coming closer, soft, muffled on what sounds like concrete, and then the strap across his forehead holding his head down is released, a man looming overhead and blocking out the light - older than Steve, bald.

Steve can tell right away that this man isn’t like Zola, or Schmidt. He doesn’t have a manic glint in his eye, not even slightly. He’s...calm, steady, like the ocean.

“Why are you doing this?” Steve asks. The man holds up a mirror and angles it. Steve glances down to it, watches it pan down the bandages he can feel covering him, sees the stain of his red through the white gauze.

“Because,” the man starts, mirror angling down further, and Steve’s heartbeat increases, breaths slowly picking up, because what if Zola meant- “The Germans, you Americans,” the man continues, the reflection panning down the tops of his thighs. It’s getting _harder_ _to hear him over the sound of his own_ _heart beating-_ “You have your super soldiers, your secret weapons. But us Russians?” the man asks.

Steve’s breath stops when he sees-

A hand rests on his shoulder - stings dully through the heavy gauze - like a teacher waiting with him for his mother to pick him up from school-

“All we have is our Winter.”

_His leg is gone._

Steve makes a _choked off noise_ -

_His arm is gone, too._

____________

He opens his eyes. It opens its eyes.

The radio’s playing. Guns are trained on it.

He sits up in a bed. It is handled out of the tube, falls to its hands and knees.

A woman comes in. Dress shoes step into its periphery.

He escapes. It forces itself to its feet, heedless of its nudity.

It is not important.

He’s surrounded by bright lights, colors, _New York-_ It is surrounded by armed agents

and guns-

It’s 2014. It is told it is 2014.

It’s been seventy years. It has been five years since its last wakening.

He misses Steve. It misses its mentor.

____________

 

 

S c a r s

 

Cold.

It’s cold.

It’s always cold, except with her, and sometimes...sometimes in his head.

But he never tells them that.

He never tells them anything.

It only makes it hurt.

_We’ve become strangers, walking a strange line, in time out of step out of line_

_Happened in stages. I was changing, I was changin without you_

“ _Again!_ ”

He throws the shield, ducks and rolls when it bounces off a pillar and comes back _too_ _fast_ -

“ _Again!_ ”

He repeats it-

_Dodges._

_Too **fast**_ -

“ _Again!_ ”

“ _For Christ’s sake!_ ” Bucky lets out, snapping his head in her direction on his way to pick it back up. _Again_. “This isn’t going to work!”

“It’s shaped and weighted _exactly_ like Captain America’s shield. It _will_ work,” she replies.

“Do I _look_ like _Captain America to you?_ ” he demands.

She stares at him.

Bucky sees just enough of Carter in her to see the red lipstick and the uniform.

“Not yet, you don’t,” Maria Hill replies, then stands taller, if that’s possible. Apparently, it is.

His fists clench.

“ _Again_ ,” Hill orders.

Bucky scoops up the shield.

Steve wouldn’t quit.

His fingers curl tighter around the leather, raising it to throw again.

He can’t, either.

-

The first thing they did, after he woke up and snuck out of that stage set, got chased out of a building and found New York bright and loud and dizzying, was debrief him. They didn’t ask him what they really wanted to, not the first time, or the second, they were too smart for that.

So first, they debriefed him.

They told him his life’s story in the eyes of history books and what they were willing to share of their own secrets, and then set him up in an apartment.

That was second.

The third, _that_ was when they asked him. Third time’s the charm and all, right?

Fury came to him, which Bucky feels doesn’t happen a whole lot (but still maybe a surprising amount), took one look around his bare apartment and then took a seat at his kitchen table, laid a folder out, and told Bucky two truths:

1\. “ _Your biology’s been altered, like Captain Rogers’. It seems when Hydra had you, during the experiments you talked about briefly back in a debrief in 1944, they recreated the serum. Our guess is, the vita rays they used, if they used them at all, weren’t at the same saturation level, so it took longer for your body to adjust and change. That’s why you survived the ice_.”

And Bucky didn’t need to be told that. He knew that truth long before they caught Zola on that train ( _long before Steve fel_ -). He knew when the liquor didn’t hit him like it used to in that pub, when Peggy stopped everyone with a red dress and even redder lipstick.

He knew when it didn’t work even half as good as it used to, when he tried to drown himself in it the other night.

Bucky could still see the broken glass from five empty bottles laying on the floor against the wall behind Fury where he left them when he threw them.

2\. _“The world needs Captain America.”_

_Fury slides the folder across the table towards him. Bucky doesn’t look at it._

_“I know you’ve given a lot,” Fury says, which is all wrong. He never gave Steve to anyone, to the world. Steve gave himself. “But the world needs you.”_

And Bucky figured: Maybe since he can’t drown himself in liquor and he can’t take his own life, maybe dressing up like Captain America will take his life for him. After all, he was always at Steve’s six, if anyone knew how much danger Captain America got into, it was Bucky.

He slid the folder closer to himself with a few fingers.

_2 Days Later_

“This is just a prototype,” the technician says, “We’ve recreated the suit and helmet with newer, more sturdy material. It should withstand some gunfire, knives, explosions-”

Bucky half listens before tuning them out altogether.

 _It’s heavy_ , is his first real thought.

He tightens his fingers in the gloves, makes a fist and listens to the material stretch. He looks down over the silver star on the center of his chest.

He releases and clenches his fists again.

 _It’s heavy_.

It’s so much heavier than he thought.

 _How did you do this Steve?_ Bucky thinks to himself, eyes on the star, _How did you do this_.

_1 Week Later_

_Click-_

_‘Goood morning, New York! The time is now 5:45 AM! And the forecast is-’_

_**Crash**._

Bucky rolls over, lifting the pillow out from under his head and putting it over his head instead.

_5 Days Later_

_Click-_

_‘Gooood morning, New York! The time is now 5-’_

_**Crash**._

There’s a weight in his chest; he thinks it’s been there since before he woke up from the ice, but he really noticed it the most when he put on that damn uniform.

He rolls over, throwing the comforter up over his head.

_It’s so heavy._

_4 Days Later_

_Click-_

_‘Goooood Mor-’_

_**Crash**_.

“You keep that up-”

He whips the gun out from under his pillow and trains it on the voice before his eyes even focus.

“-S.H.I.E.L.D.’s not going to keep buying you alarm clocks.”

She’s blurry at first, leaning against his bedroom wall, arms crossed and expression calm, curled hair red and _damn_ beautiful. A year ago, he probably would’ve _welcomed_ waking up to this-

Right. _Seventy_ years ago.

“Who are you,” he demands, voice raspy.

“Natasha Romanoff, agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” she answers, and he narrows his eyes a little but doesn’t lower his gun.

“Why are you here.”

“We were supposed to meet a week ago,” she replies, then her lips curve up a bit like she’s about to tell an inside joke, “But I had to manage a boy and his toys.”

It’s cryptic, at best, but Bucky gets the feeling that’s one of the keywords used to describe her.

She could be lying, too. She could actually be here to kill him.

He lowers his gun and drops his head back to the pillow.

“Let me guess,” he starts, staring up at the ceiling, “Fury wants me to come in.”

He sees her push herself up off of the wall in his periphery, all fluid, smooth motions, like water. He wonders briefly if she shifts like water, too, then decides he doesn’t really care.

“Combat training,” she says, “I’ll be your instructor.”

His eyes slant over in her direction.

Her lips curve up just slightly.

“Ready to get started?”

He forces himself out of bed and trudges to the bathroom.

She _doesn’t_ kill him on his way to the bathroom. He doesn’t really care about that, either.

He shaves for the first time in-

He’s not sure how long it’s been. Does it really matter?

It takes him a while, mostly because he keeps stopping to stare at himself in the mirror. He’s not sure he recognizes himself anymore.

Does _that_ really matter?

( _If Steve were here_ -)

Bucky drops his eyes from the mirror and cleans the razor blade under the water stream.

-

“We’ll start with tests of strength and endurance,” she says once they’re at the S.H.I.E.L.D. training facility, tennis shoes on and track pants billowing slightly around his legs.

Apparently, she _is_ a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

The short grass shifts with the light breeze and her hair with it, like a stream of fire under the sun.

“First: Strength,” she says, and he frowns a little. She gestures towards the tractor twenty feet away and he looks from it back to her, frowning more.

“I know I’ve changed,” he says, incredulous, “But I haven’t changed _that_ much.”

She just stands there, looking at him, waiting, and he sighs, shaking his head.

“Prepare to be disappointed,” he mutters, stopping in front of the tractor and putting his hands on the metal scoop, pushing-

He stops, staring at it.

It _moved_.

That’s how he learns he’s a lot stronger than he thought, and that his alarm clocks weren’t as fragile as he assumed. He’s been sleeping so much, he hadn’t really tested...

Natasha’s lips quirk up when he looks over and he just stares for a moment before she gestures to the track.

He walks over, a little hesitant, a little curious, and still kind of hoping she’s wrong.

-

She’s not wrong.

_3 Months Later_

_Click-_

_‘Goooood Morning, New York! The time is now 5:45 AM and it’s gonna be another great morning! The forecast for today-’_

_Tap-click._

Bucky stares up at the ceiling for a long moment, trying to force his breathing slow, can feel the sweat drying on his skin. He flips his covers, turning and pushing himself up out of bed. _That man is way too cheery to be a New Yorker_ , he thinks, flipping the bathroom light on and looking up at himself in the mirror.

He forces his eyes down, reaching for his toothbrush.

-

He taps a foot on the subway floor, turns the volume up on his iPod and drops his face a little, hat pulled low when someone walks by talking loudly on their phone, “ _I don’t care what you think he didn’t do! Ground him!_ ” and tries to relax a little more back into the seat, cushions long since worn in. He closes his eyes and tries to let the track vibrations settle him, pressed in tight with everyone else.

He lets himself think it’s 1941, just for the rest of the ride.

-

He steps out at his stop, hands in his pockets. He stops when short blonde catches in his periphery and looks up.

He turns to watch the kid step onto the train, chattering away in French, or trying to, with a brown haired girl, pink in his cheeks and a smile curving up both their lips.

Bucky stares for a moment, then frowns a little as the subway doors slide closed and turns back around, heading for the stairs. He takes them up, head down, then stops when a black car pulls up to the curb, the passenger side window rolling down.

“Get in,” Nat says, hair more of a bob than tresses now, and Bucky walks forward, pulling his hand out of his pocket to open the passenger side door.

____________

“Captain.”

Bucky shakes the hand offered to him.

“Just Barnes is fine,” he replies, letting go, “Doctor Banner.” Banner smiles a little, not too wide, not too small, just good enough to blend in. “So,” Bucky starts, “Hear you can help us find the cube?” he asks, walking with him. Banner’s smile twists, just a little.

“Is that all you hear?”

“Nope,” Bucky replies truthfully, “But, honestly, I’m more interested in the science.”

Banner studies him for half a moment before his smile curves up just a bit more, a bit more honest.

“What do you know about gamma radiation?” he asks.

“Not much,” Bucky admits, grinning a little. It feels strange on his face after not doing it for so long. “But I get the feeling _that’s_ gonna change.”

Bucky likes Banner.

____________

He doesn’t like Stark.

“So,” Stark Jr. starts, “You’re the new _Cap_ ,” he says, popping the ‘ _p_ ’.

By the bloodline _alone_ , Bucky probably should’ve known he wasn’t gonna like Stark’s kid.

He and Howard got on fine, for the most part, when Stark wasn’t going home with a new dame every night. Bucky may not have played it all straight, but he never moved _that_ fast. He had more respect for’em than that. Stark was brilliant, just not where women and respect were concerned, especially in combination.

“History doesn’t mention you much,” Stark jibes, vicious.

“Funny,” Bucky replies, smirking like a shark, “Your old man didn’t mention you much, either.”

Well, that’s one way to come to blows on a helicarrier in the damn _sky_.

So much for first meetings. At least now he knows not to mention Howard.

He notices Romanoff hovers nearby the whole time he’s there. Well. Not _hovers_ , per-say, but he can always find her when he looks, until he can’t, and then _he’s_ slipping off to find things Fury wanted to keep locked up.

-

“ _What in the **hell** is this_ ,” Bucky demands, almost _slamming_ the gun down on the table.

The arguing stops, not that Bucky really gives a shit, but Fury goes quiet and then solemn and Bucky’s about _had it._

“We recovered those. We weren’t intending to use-”

“I’m sorry, Fury, what were you lying?” Stark interrupts.

Bucky’s kind of glad Steve isn’t here to see him punch Fury right in the jaw.

He _just_ manages not to break it.

And then, because of course, all fucking _hell_ breaks loose, including The Hulk.

Bucky can’t help but think of Steve and kind of never wants to see it again. Things that could have been instead of Steve coming out like he did.

Things Bucky could have been instead of coming out like he did. Worse things.

____________

So, aliens are real.

 _Bet you’d love that,_ Bucky thinks, _Wouldn’t you, Stevie_.

____________

“ _Cap! They’re headed your way!_ ”

Bucky grits his teeth.

“Got it!” he replies, and charges straight ahead and tries not to shudder at the monicker.

 _Aliens, Steve_ , Bucky thinks, _Can you believe it?_ He’s _still_ trying to wrap his head around it.

He throws the shield and this time, it hits its target dead on.

____________

Turns out, shawarma’s not bad.

Stark’s not, either.

_Boy with a broken soul, heart with a gaping hole_

_One Month Later_

“ _How was the mission in Bulgaria?_ ” a voice asks.

“No problems,” another replies, younger.

“ _And the asset?_ ”

“The manual was right; it gets...particular, after about five days.”

“ _How long did it last this time?_ ”

“Five, exact.”

“ _What are the particulars?_ ”

“Wouldn’t comply with specific commands.”

“ _Like?_ ”

“Wouldn’t kill the kid on day four. I had to step in and take the shot. Killed the parents fine on days two and three.”

The older voice hums softly over speakers.

“ _Current status?_ ”

Something shifts its face left, then right.

“Sedated,” the voice replies, closer, “Gotta steady stream of drugs pumping through an I.V. line. It’s not out cold, but it’s not going anywhere.”

“ _The reconstruction effort in Hell’s Kitchen is developing into a thorn_ ,” the older voice replies. The something lets go of its face and its head lulls back to the side. The room is dark. It can barely see the figure moving back towards the screen, blurred and outlined in bright white. “ _Return with the asset. Keep it sedated it until we can wipe it again._ ”

“Understood,” the figure replies, “And the _other_ mission? Is it time?”

“ _Soon_ ,” the older voice replies, “ _Return to S.H.I.E.L.D. after asset containment_.” The bright light cuts out and the figure is barely there, a small green light on the console and a red one not too far from it barely catching the figure’s edges. The figure moves closer, bending down to pat its leg.

“Hear that, big guy?” the figure says, “We’re heading back to base.” The hand on its leg moves up and around, grips the inside of its thigh and pulls, spreading its legs. The figure moves. After a moment, it hears a zipper, blurrily watches the figure climb up and throw a knee over it, resting it on the other side of its chest, straddling. Fingers tilt its head back by its chin and then open its mouth, something dull and warm and familiar gliding inside along its bottom lip.

That dull something nudges the back of its throat and it gets praise for not making a sound. It feels like it hasn’t gagged in a long time. It must have learned early on not to.

____________

Bucky blows out a breath, hands in his pockets. His eyes roam the smooth wood walls and he tries real hard not to roll them at the pictures of _eagles_ flying across _purple_ _mountain majesties_ , the framed inspirational quotes.

This was stupid. He shouldn’t be here.

He shoves his hands down further in his pockets and keeps walking anyway, head down and hat low, feet quiet on the linoleum. He catches a voice gently echoing from towards the end of the hall and glances up, slowly wandering over.

He’s barely started camping out at the corner across from the filled room before people start standing and flooding out like a high school hall, footsteps and voices echoing off of the walls.

He’s gotten used to the enhanced hearing, but the cacophony is still a little loud.

He’s about to push off the wall when the man that led the session walks over.

 _Shit. Abort_ -

Too late.

“Hey, there,” The man starts, “Sam Wilson.”

Right. Names.

“James Rogers,” Bucky returns, notes the man doesn’t offer his hand. Smart.

“This your first time in the V.A.?” Wilson asks. Bucky gives a nod and Wilson nods back. “We hold meetings three times a week: mornings, afternoons, one in the evening, try to cover all the times people might be available,” he continues, walking past Bucky. Bucky turns to watch him start organizing the table against the wall next to him. “Always, _always_ have coffee, morning, noon, _and_ night,” Wilson adds, quirking a smile up at him. Bucky finds his lips twitching back. He nods towards the eagle picture.

“Who’s idea was that?” he asks. Wilson looks and then lets out a short laugh.

“Honestly?” he asks, looking back, “I have _no_ idea. It is pretty over the top though, isn’t it.”

“Just a bit,” Bucky replies, the smile on his face strange, but not bad. He looks back to Wilson. “Were you…?” he trails off, not sure if he should ask. Things have changed a lot since the 40s, not all of them for the better, not all for the worse. This, this is familiar though. The not talking.

Wilson’s brows furrow briefly before his expression clears, and to Bucky’s surprise (and unsurprise), he nods. “Yeah,” he answers, picking up the thread, “Pararescue. Two tours. You?” he asks. Bucky pauses.

“Was a Sergeant,” he starts, “Now I’m doing special ops.” Wilson’s eyebrows rise a little while he nods, looking back down to gather up some pamphlets and put them back in their plastic holder.

“It’s not easy,” he comments, and Bucky snorts quietly.

“No,” he agrees, “It’s not.” He glances down the hall. He didn’t realize it’d gone quiet. “Not sure what the alternative would be, though.”

“Well…” Wilson trails off, and Bucky drags his eyes back, “What do you _want_ to do?”

 _Go home_ , Bucky thinks immediately. But home isn’t home anymore, not exactly.

“I don’t know,” he answers instead, looking back down the hall.

“Yeah,” he hears Wilson say, “I know that feeling, too.” Bucky looks back and Wilson just smiles, small and knowing. It reminds Bucky a bit of Romanoff, but without the edges and the full mask.

Bucky’s lips twitch up back.

They share a moment of silence before Bucky pushes up off the wall, heading back down the hall.

“See you around,” Wilson says to his back, and Bucky glances over his shoulder, lips quirking.

“Yeah. Maybe,” he replies.

He shows up later next week towards the end of another session, propping himself up against the wall, listening silently to a woman talk about swerving to miss a bag, thinking it was a bomb. Wilson invites him into the room after for coffee, and Bucky thinks over the woman’s story for a moment as the hall empties behind him before taking a step.

____________

 _Rubber on pavement, a splash_.

He turns a sharp corner.

_Cars, engines, laughter, screaming, tires on cement, music, lamps flickering._

Metal whirring, low and quiet, shifting. Breathing steady, heart paced behind him, calm.

Running steps.

 _It’s **fast**_.

The air shifts and distorts behind him and he grabs hold of the hanging rung at the last moment and swings himself up, metal gritty-wet under his gloves and creaking softly with the friction. Metal goes bowling past where he was, ramming through the air like a bulldozer. His feet thunk _hard_ on the firescape, metal creaking in protest, and he starts running up the stairs three at a time, barely hears the footsteps below skid to a stop, rubber on wet pavement, shift with a sharp _squeak_ and then-

A loud _thud_ , metal _groaning_ under the weight before it _collapses_ , shaking the whole structure loose of the side of the building and he grabs hold of the rails as it falls sideways, timing his jump at the last moment and landing in a hard roll back in the alley.

The man- machine? Man-machine walks towards him, sedate, casual, heavy treads slightly off-

He angles his head up slightly, cocking it a bit to listen.

There’s more metal shifting, whirring, muffled by fabric-

Something goes flying past his cheek with a soft metallic _hum_ and the steps cease, air distorting as it dodges, leaning to the left, and then there’s a _click_ -

He dodges right and the bullet skims his armor, more bullets following and he rolls behind a nearby dumpster, taking cover while he thinks.

He hears quick, light, easy steps run towards the man-machine and then metal strike metal, more bullets from around his cover. He charges out from behind the dumpster and yanks out his escrima, two heartbeats becoming three.

They work in tandem, her blades striking in alternating beats with his escrima, _sharp-blunt, sharp-blunt_ , just like them. Metal slides rough against metal, friction almost enough for sparks; he can smell it, and then slices through the air and her breath hitches, low and soft in his ears and he quickly twists down and aims a foot up, barely missing its chin as it dodges back, taking its blade with it out of reach, away from aiming for her chest and then charges forward-

 _Squelch_ , iron and salt on the air on his tongue, in his nose. It can bleed.

It _is_ human.

The man-machine jumps back and there’s a pause before it takes off, boots landing with a heavy _thud_ on cement and he runs to the edge of the alley and she follows, ribbons and dress _snapping_ in the wind like red flags planted down in scorched earth. She always smells like fire and brimstone, the hell he chases. He presses his back to the wall and listens for a moment, moving to pursue around the corner-

Elektra’s hand grips his shoulder and Daredevil turns his head back slightly in her direction. He feels the air distort as she shakes her own and he turns back towards the city, _listening._

 _Listening_.

-

He taps his cane against the sidewalk while he walks, following the rules and putting on a show, just a bit of one. The cab takes another burden as soon as he’s barely a foot away and drives off, and he tries not to cough at the exhaust spat out the tailpipe in his direction.

Mr. DeLewin should really get that checked.

He navigates the steps up and pulls the door open, metal handle cold and smooth under his hand, the glass door gently and barely reverberating under force of the wind. He steps inside, listening to his shoes echo off of the walls and angling his head towards the receptionist when he speaks up.

“Hello, Sir. May I help you?”

“Yes,” Matt replies, “Could you please tell Miss Potts that her one o’clock is here.”

He hears shifting and then plastic _clacking_ gently against plastic, a dial tone and then a finger pad soft on buttons, soft beeps. Elevator doors sound a few minutes later and then high heels on hard floor.

“Mr. Murdock,” a polite voice greets, soft with barely a faint rasp, “I believe we spoke over the phone. I’m Pepper Potts. Please, follow me. Would you like any assistance?”

“I’m alright, thank you,” he replies with a smile, tapping his cane along the floor and following her. He steps into the elevator and pulls his cane in close, resting his hands one over the other on top while the doors slide closed.

“Mr. Stark is waiting upstairs, as requested,” she says amidst the muffled sounds of the elevator quietly moving up the height of the building. The softest elevator he’s ever heard.

“Thank you, Miss Potts,” he replies, smiling over at her, “I know that can’t have been easy to arrange.” She laughs lightly, low and easy as the elevator slows to a stop, the doors sliding open. He follows as she leads the way.

“Well, well,” says another voice, curled and blunt, “What brings the Devil out of his Kitchen to see me?” Matt raises an eyebrow and Mr. Stark sighs. “And the lovely Widow, of course.” The air displaces more noticeably and he angles his head up. She’s very good.

“I was told to bring this matter to you,” Matt answers, and knows he gets a few eyebrows at that. “Yes, well,” he says, breaking the silence. Well. Silence for them. “This is a bit out of my depth.”

“Who sent you?” the Widow asks.

“A...mutual acquaintance,” he answers. She inclines her head and he angles his a little towards Mr. Stark when Stark speaks.

“What is it that’s got you out of your depth?”

“About six foot two, roughly four hundred pounds, _fast_ ,” he stresses, “Metal arm.” The Widow goes a particular kind of still. “I was patrolling when it- _he_ came at me with his metal fist.”

“Four hundred pounds…” Stark muses, and Matt’s lips twitch, jaw clenching briefly.

“I’m not underselling myself when I say the _only_ reason I managed to evade him so long was because I kept changing direction and dodging out of the way.”

“You said ‘it’,” Stark observes after a moment.

“I did,” Matt replies, “He had more than just a metal arm, but I didn’t have time to place what it was. And he was far heavier than he should have been for his build, which I assumed was because of the machinery, but when he tried to strike me with his arm, the force of it didn’t equate his total weight. Therefore, and because I _heard_ _it_ , there’s more machinery to him than I had the time to gauge.” Stark hums, interested, and Matt focuses more on the Widow. “Do you have some insight you could offer us, Ms. Widow?” he asks. Stark shifts, the heaviest in the room, aside from him, couch cushions rustling quietly.

“He sounds familiar,” she answers, crossing her arms, “But I need to check my sources. It can’t be who I think it is.”

“And who might that be?” Stark asks.

She keeps her eyes on Matt.

“A ghost,” she answers.

____________

“Reports are saying the Avengers shut down the A.I.M. operation in Sweden.”

“Information on the new Captain America?”

He quickens his steps to keep up.

“Agent Rumlow has been assigned to work with him as of this morning,” he replies, lights making the file paper bright in quick flashes, “He reported that the new Captain America is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, retrieved from ice one week before the Battle for New York.” He jerks to a stop when Secretary Pierce halts, glancing up warily.

The secretary hums low in his throat before he keeps walking.

“And the Asset?”

“Finished with punishment as of twenty minutes ago,” he answers. Secretary Pierce nods.

“Good. Inform the technicians to ready for a prep and wipe.”

“Sir,” he answers, writing it down quickly, “And the target?” he asks.

The secretary hums again, turning the corner at the end of the hall and slowing as they approach _that_ room.

“Why, I think we’ll test out this new Captain,” the secretary replies, smile curving up his mouth, “In due time.”

He swallows and tries to avoid looking into the room, but can’t help his eyes drawing down slow to the asset kneeling on the ground, panting, arms behind its back and blood dripping to the floor.

“Sir,” he answers, and writes it down as he turns sharply and heads back down the hall.

_I had palms that sung, I had palms that stung_

_One Week Later_

“We’ve _gotta_ stop meeting like this,” Sam jokes.

Bucky makes an exaggerated face, lips tugging down while he looks over at and gestures to the coffeemaker in something akin to despair. “This _coffee_ ,” he says, tragedy in every syllable, and Sam snorts a laugh.

“This coffee,” he agrees, reaching for a styrofoam cup, “Could be better. Have had worse.” Bucky toasts him in commiseration before taking a sip. He hasn’t winced over coffee since before the ice, and this? This is _cringe_ worthy. Exactly what he needs.

They sit and talk for a while, and not talk, and Bucky feels...not quite better, exactly, but less alone. He stays through the session, listening, watching, feels guilt for not sharing and relief when Sam doesn’t ask him to.

When it’s over and everyone’s stood and folded their chairs up, put them away and gathered their things and started to go, Bucky lingers, waiting the five extra minutes it takes for Sam to wrap up cleaning up the room. He flicks the light off while Bucky waits in the hall, watching him lock the door.

“You walking me out, Mr. Rogers?” he jokes, and Bucky snorts quietly, lips twitching up a bit.

“Just makin’ sure you don’t get mugged on the way to your car,” Bucky retorts, and Sam grins.

“And what if _you’re_ the mugger?” he returns while they head down the hall.

“ _Me?_ ” Bucky asks, mock-indignant, “I _got_ what I came for. Coffee and good company.”

Sam smiles and it feels good, to make someone else smile. It’s been a rough...shit, a little over four _months_ , now. He hasn’t exactly been popular in the S.H.I.E.L.D. or Avengers crowd, not as far as interacting-with-other-people-outside-of-missions goes, and he knows it.

He thinks of Sam as _Sam_ now, too. That’s gotta count for something, right?

“ _Mmhmm_ ,” Sam hums mock-disbelievingly, letting Bucky out the front doors first before following and turning to finish locking up. “Nah, I know you wouldn’t mug me,” he says as they head for his car, “Being who you are.” Bucky freezes and Sam stops, turning to look at him. He quirks his lips, calm and neutral, non-threatening.

Bucky sighs. “You knew?” he asks.

“ _Yup_ ,” Sam replies, popping the ‘p’.

“When?” Bucky asks next, and Sam glances down in thought, resting his coat over his arm.

“Morning of the second day,” he finally answers, “You looked kinda familiar so I pulled out an old history book, and there you were. Name helped.” Bucky huffs and Sam smiles, expression sobering quickly. “I’m not going to tell anyone,” he starts, but Bucky waves a hand before slipping it back into his coat pocket.

“It’s alright,” he says, “I just...panicked.”

It’s quiet for a minute. A car drives past and Bucky ducks his head away from the headlights.

“It’s hard...coming back,” Sam starts, quieter, and Bucky looks back. Sam’s staring off to the side, eyebrows furrowed a bit. “You see and do a lot, you lose friends, then you come back to…” he trails off, looking back at Bucky and smiling a little apologetically, “Sorry. I know what you came back to is probably a lot different than what it was.”

Bucky’s quiet for a few moments before asking quietly, “You lost someone?”

Sam nods, lips pinching a little. “Yeah,” he answers, “My wingman. Riley. We were doing a standard night op, like any other, and he...got shot out of the sky. I felt like I was just there to watch.”

Bucky’s lips flatten and his eyes drop to the ground, staring at the dark cement and trying to focus on literally _every single thing_ _**but** _ his memory.

“I remember thinking...after a while,” Sam continues after a few moments, “That it was just a standard op. Just the same thing we’d done _hundreds_ of times. But it’s always that point, right,” he says more than asks. Bucky looks back up and Sam drags his eyes back. “When you get comfortable, think you got it. It’s not quite easy but you know what you’re doin’ and you’ve come back from it hundreds of times. Why should this time be any different? Then...then it is. It just is.”

Bucky stares at him for a long minute before forcing his eyes away, fingers curling tight in his coat pockets. “Yeah,” he says quietly, body so tense he almost wants to just throw himself out a window just to try and loosen up. He could, now, throw himself out a window just for something as dumb as that and be fine. He still kind of hates it.

He forces his mind away from _wide blue eyes_ and _ice_ and struggles with all his damn might to stay right _here_.

“After I woke up,” he starts, still quiet, “After I figured out where I was and wasn’t, I just remember thinking I was _amazed_ , and then quickly that I just wanted to go _home._ Looking at the city was like...seeing it there, so close, but just beyond my reach, and covered in...another city. I had a difficult time wrapping my head around it, after.”

He’s quiet again for a minute, but Wilson doesn’t push him to go, or talk, doesn’t fill the air with expectation or anticipation, just waits. That’s probably why Bucky says what he says next.

“They gave me a box of stuff,” he continues, staring off to the side, “Box of mine and-...Steve’s stuff. There wasn’t a whole lot: my dog tags, my knives, a pack of cigarettes I didn’t finish,” he snorts, “Steve’s books that he’d brought…” Bucky shakes his head a little, clearing the mental image. “I found one of Steve’s old sketchbooks in there,” he continues, voice lowering, “It...It took me a long time to open it, but when I did, I thought _there, there’s the Brooklyn I know_. There’s our old fire escape, the shitty view of the other buildings, the roof we used to climb up to. There’s _home_.” The backs of his eyes sting a bit but he keeps his voice clear and his brows from furrowing, eyes focused across the street. “I can’t go back, I’m having a hard time goin’ forward, but there in those pages, I do both.”

This century isn’t bad, but it’s not home. Still isn’t, even though he’s finally got his ass kicked into gear and _tryin_ ’. It’s just not the same. He feels like he’s lost at sea and the only one who knows he’s drownin’.

It’s quiet for a minute, another car passing by. Bucky just barely remembers to duck his head away.

“You know…” Sam starts, and Bucky lifts his head and looks back up, Sam’s eyes meeting his, “I’ve got a book you might like. It’s a collection of interviews with the Howling Commandos from 1946 to present. There’s some others, but I’m slowly realizing they might all be completely inaccurate,” he finishes, eyes slowly going dramatically wide in horror towards the end of the sentence. Bucky snorts before focusing again.

“I’d...like to borrow it. If I can,” he replies. Honestly, it’s probably one of the books S.H.I.E.L.D. tried giving him when they were attempting to ‘ _integrate him into the twenty-first century_ ’ and ‘ _help him adapt to a new century_ ’, like _anyone_ really knows how to do that.

He didn’t take any of them. Now, though, now he might try one.

Sam nods, smiling again. “Yeah. I’ll bring it tomorrow?”

“I’ll come for coffee,” Bucky guarantees, and Sam snorts a laugh, nodding once.

“Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he replies, and Bucky nods back before Sam turns to round and unlock his car.

“It’s a date,” he calls with a smirk and a wink, and Sam snorts.

“Whatever you say _Mr. Rogers_ ,” Sam replies, then makes a face. There’s a joke there Bucky doesn’t know yet. He’ll have to look ‘Mr. Rogers’ up on his way back.

Sam starts his car, door loud in the night and lights bright, and waves through the window. Bucky gives a small one back while watching him go, red tail lights heading down the street then turning out of view.

He pulls his phone out while he heads back in the direction of his apartment, getting the internet open and typing in ‘ _Mr. Rogers_ ’. He lets out a loud burst of a laugh barely two building doors later, scaring a wandering cat into standing stiff with its fur on end, the _giddy_ feeling taking him by surprise.

 _No wonder_.

 _Mr. Rogers_. _Stark would’ve given Steve **shit** for that._

____________

“Where have you been?” Clint asks, gathering his gear.

“Looking into something,” Natasha replies. Clint nods and pulls on his archer glove, expression evening out, calm.

“Was it lucrative?” he asks. She raises an eyebrow and his smooth expression cracks with a frown. “Successful? Accomplished? You know what I mean.” Her lips twitch and she closes her locker.

She heads towards the quinjet deck with Clint closing his own locker and following behind, leaving the question unanswered.

“ _Aww, Nat_.”

____________

Bucky sits through the next night’s session, too, sipping his coffee while he sits in the back corner, listening, vaguely, but mostly looking through the book Sam gave him before the start of it. He was going to wait until he got back to his apartment, but the temptation won out.

There are interviews from the rest of the Commandos in it, throughout the years, from 1946 to present, just like Sam said.

Bucky tries to skim the ones that mention him or Steve, for now, and instead tries to find mention of what shit the guys got up to, after.

There’s mention of Dugan’s wife, a kid, of Morita going back to his family before dipping off and on back in war at one of the other Commando’s requests. There’s some parts about Monty sticking it out for another three years, working his rank up but coming back when called, of Gabe heading back to school and finishing up before meetin’ a girl, of Dernier moving on to other battles, other wars. If they have anything in common, it’s that they never fully stayed out of the war, except Gabe, comin’ back when one of the others called, and that they all mention Steve and himself, a _lot_.

‘ _Of course we talk about them a lot. What are you, daft?_ ’

Bucky snorts quietly and darts his eyes up, clearing his throat at the few eyes on him and smiling apologetically before dropping them back to the book, curling in just a bit more.

_‘They were two of the best men we ever knew. Don’t know how we managed to get anything done without them.’_

_‘Now that’s a lie. We definitely got more shit done without them.’_

_‘Don’t call my words a lie then say one of your own, Dugan.’_

_‘Wanna take this outside?’_

Bucky’s lips curl up into a grin. Feels a little weird on his face, but damn if he can’t picture the whole conversation in his head, Monty giving Dugan the _Prim, Down-His-Nose Stare_ and Dugan puffing up his chest in return, all in good fun. It’s almost a wonder the interviewers managed to get some straight answers out of them and published the book at _all_.

Bucky keeps his nose buried in the book most of the meeting, jumping a bit when he hears people stand and chairs clatter, head whipping up. He stumbles to his feet, closing the book with his finger between the pages to mark his place while he turns and folds up his own chair one handed, walking over after most of the others have finished and slipping it onto the carry cart.

He waits until the room is empty before heading over and following Sam out, itching to get back to the book.

“Like it?” Sam asks, smiling over at him when Bucky looks, and he smiles back, more genuine than he’s felt in a while, and nodding while he lifts said book.

“Surprised they bothered going back and interviewing them enough to fill a damn _book_ ,” he snorts, and Sam laughs, walking with him down the hall.

“Yeah, they do get into tangents a lot,” he agrees, and Bucky laughs, small and quiet, but it’s a laugh.

“That’s them. Avoiding the question because they think it’s bullshit or just plain don’t wanna answer,” he adds, pausing outside the building door while Sam locks it. “It’s almost like having the guys here,” he says, quieter, touching the cover with his free hand. “Thanks,” he says, looking over to Sam, “For letting me borrow this, _history buff_.”

“No problem,” Sam replies with a small laugh, “Keep it as long as you need, just don’t bend the page corners.”

Bucky gives him a small salute and Sam nods, pleased, making Bucky’s lips curve up a bit.

“See you later?” Sam asks, and Bucky nods, glancing at the book.

“Yeah,” he says, at least he thinks. Once he gets to the stuff about him and Steve, he’s not sure he’ll want to be around anyone for a while, but he’ll...try.

“Alright,” Sam says, raising a hand to give a short wave, “See you when I see you.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, returning the wave, the weight of obligation lifting before it even gets to start. Sam’s good at that, Bucky’s slowly noticed.

He turns to start heading back to his place, pulling the book open again and listening to the sound of Sam’s car door opening behind him. He starts skimming.

It _is_ like having the guys here with him, in the present. He knows none of them...are around anymore, none but Carter, but this, this makes him feel like they’re alive again. It’s tricky, he knows, has been to the S.H.I.E.L.D. therapists enough to know it’s a slippery slope, thinkin’ of it that way, but it makes him feel...less alone, so he lets himself indulge in it for a bit.

 _Let’s see_ …, he thinks, skimming the pages, _Wonder if any of them actually managed to get **married**_ -

Something flashes out in front of his face out of the alley to his right, and his eyes widen when the front of his shirt’s grabbed and then he’s being thrown down into the alley, book going flying while he rolls across the pavement. He skids to a stop and pushes himself up, head whipping up before he rolls to the side just before a fist collides and cracks the pavement he was just half-crouched over, shoving himself up to his feet and _back_.

 _What the f_ -

He dodges another punch but takes a kick to the gut, eyes flashing wide at the pain while he goes flying _further_ down the alley with a pained grunt, curling around his stomach as he rolls to a stop. He coughs, something warm and salty coming up the back of his throat and flecking his mouth. He barely hears bootsteps before a hand fists the front of his shirt and he automatically grips whoever it is’ wrist, pausing a second - too long - when he feels _cold_ and _metal_.

 _What_ -

He gets a glimpse of long hair before a fist comes down hard across his face and he _grunts_ , scrabbling at the wrist then further up, trying to find something _flesh_ -

He tries to roll to the side and throw the guy off balance, but all the guy does is _shift_ and then he’s fuckin- _**Immovable**_. _But that’s_ -

Another fist comes down and Bucky spits out a tooth, turning his head quick and looking up.

Pale blue eyes stare back above a half mask, dark in the shadows of the alley under the cover of night, too dark to make out much but the low glint of metal fingers poised to strike his face-

Something comes _flying_ from the other end of the alley and the guy reaches out, catching it instead of punching him. It’s a-

_Trashcan lid?_

Bucky wrenches himself away, shirt tearing, and aims a kick up. The guy dodges back while throwing the lid back down the alley, someone dodging in Bucky’s periphery. He throws a punch and the guy catches it, this time with a flesh hand. It’s only a relief until it starts _tightening_ on his damn knuckles, finger bones _grinding_.

“ _Gack_ ,” Bucky lets out, gritting his teeth before aiming a kick up towards the guy’s middle. Another _something_ comes flying down from the end of the alley followed by the sound of running steps and the guy lets go, dodging back and turning his head to look before turning right and darting away down the opposite end of the alley. Bucky moves to follow and only gets a step before he stumbles to a stop, coughing up more warmth while he curls an arm around his middle, pain shuddering up his insides. He keeps his eyes up and watches long hair trail out of sight around the corner.

“ _You okay?_ ” Sam asks on a breath, a hand going to his shoulder. Bucky stays hunched, blinking and keeping his eyes on the end of the alley for a few more moments to make sure the guy’s not coming _back_ before letting himself look to Sam.

“Sam?” he asks, licks his lower lip and tastes blood. _Shit._ Who _was_ that? He hasn’t been made to bleed easy since the serum.

“Come on,” Sam says, looking up towards the end of the alley before gingerly wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and turning him to guide him back down the alley, “Let’s get out of here.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky coughs quietly, his whole- _torso_ protesting while he walks, letting Sam lead him out, Sam picking up the book on the way when Bucky stops.

He might actually have a few broken _ribs._

He lets Sam bundle him up into the back of his car, laying slightly curled in on his side while he stares at the back of Sam’s seat and tries to figure out what the _fuck just happened._

Metal arm? Mask? Long ass hair? The strength, too. Even if it was just a prosthetic, the body it’s attached to would have to be able to withstand throwing him _bodily_ down an alley, and pretty far, too. And he’s pretty sure there was weapons, lots of weapons, and a vest? It was quick but his memory recall’s gotten significantly better with the serum, one of the effects, even though it was _already_ pretty good. The guy was dressed like a villain out of a damn _comic book_ , armed to the teeth and wearing a fuckin’ half _mask_. Who the hell _was_ he? And why did he _attack_ _him?_

“ _Shit_ ,” he curses quietly, closing his eyes for a moment while he tries to rest, “ _What the fuck is going on?_ ” he asks grouchily, opening his eyes to glare at the back of Sam’s seat.

____________

“ _Nat_ ,” he grunts on Sam’s couch, gratefully accepting the bag of frozen- chicken? Sam hands him, holding it gingerly to his side while Sam takes a look at the rest of the bruising blossoming all across his torso. Shit.

“ _What happened?_ ” she asks, picking up on his tone, voice serious.

“I just got turned into a punching bag by a guy in a mask with a metal arm,” Bucky grits, wincing when Sam presses in a few places with his fingertips, “Any idea _why?_ ” She might not know, but he’s gotten to know her just well _enough_ that he wouldn’t be surprised if she _did_.

She’s quiet a second too long. He’s gotten used to picking up on her subtle clues, too.

“ _We might be looking into_ -”

“What do you know?” he cuts her off, not in the mood for the run around, and she’s silent for a moment, the silence itself radiating a deadly patient kind of annoyance particular to her.

“ _A fellow working class hero came in to report something strange last week_ ,” she answers, and he frowns, ignoring the little jab, “ _I don’t want to talk about it over the phone_.” A secure line and she’s still worried?

“Nat-” he starts.

“ _Where are you_ ,” she cuts him off, and he frowns a little more, looking up at Sam, who looks back.

“Not a place you can park a quinjet on,” he warns.

“ _Come to the Tower_ ,” she says, “ _And bring whoever’s with you_.”

He stills. “Nat-” he starts again.

“ _They saw, didn’t they?_ ” she cuts him off again, and he pauses, then sighs.

“Fine,” he says, looking over to Sam again, who raises his eyebrows a little in question before they lower at his look. “Give me half an hour.”

The line goes dead and he hangs up on his end, dropping his head back against the surprisingly cushiony arm rest. He lifts it again after a few moments.

“Ever wanna see Avengers Tower?” Bucky asks, a little apologetic, and Sam’s eyebrows climb up a bit.

“I’ll get my coat,” he replies, standing, “And I’m driving.” He offers his hand down and Bucky takes it, groaning quietly as Sam helps him slowly roll up to his feet, frozen chicken still held to his gut.

“I’m not complaining,” Bucky quips, handing the chicken back for Sam to put away before they head back down to the car.

____________

Sam helps him up the steps, a little wide eyed, eyes roaming as they head up and into the Tower lobby. Bucky gives a short nod over to the secretary as they pass, who watches them go, looking half tempted to get up out of their chair to help and reluctant to even make eye contact. There’s a lot of that around him, though. He’s used to it.

They slip into the elevator and then the doors are sliding shut, and it’s abruptly quiet, just the sounds of their breathing and heartbeats. It seems loud compared to the noise of getting the shit beat out of him earlier.

The elevator stops on floor twenty and the doors slide open, revealing one Natasha Romanoff.

“Sam Wilson,” she greets, and Bucky feels and sees Sam straighten slightly in his periphery, the tension in his body.

Bucky narrows his eyes a little at her and she smiles politely.

Definitely fake. It’s not coy in the slightest.

“I’m going to have to ask you to wait on this floor until I’m done talking with Mr. Barnes, here,” she finishes.

“I…” Sam trails off, looking over. Bucky looks back.

He makes himself stand, shifting over slightly with a slight wince to hold onto the railing, instead, giving Sam a small wave and smile.

“It’s fine,” he says, but Sam still looks hesitant. Bucky cocks a brow. “World’s Mightiest _Heroes_ ,” he half teases, “You’ll live.” Sam gives him a slightly _less_ tight look but turns back to Nat and steps out of the elevator, trading places as she steps in.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she says, “And ask Jarvis if you need anything.”

The elevator doors slide closed before Sam can finish getting out, “ _Jarvi-?_ ” and then it’s quiet again as they keep on heading up.

“You looked him up?” he asks. She doesn’t trust Sam. Bucky’s not surprised.

“Can't be too careful,” she replies. And ah, there's her hint of _coy_.

The elevator slows to a stop around floor eighty and she steps out, waiting for him to shamble his way along, using the wall just a bit when he needs it. He feels her eyes on him, studying, analyzing, probably trying to gauge the damage that mysterious _someone_ was able to inflict on _him_ , of all people.

Bucky doesn’t like the serum. It’s got its quirks, sure, but...he’s been dressing like Steve for the past four months and training, doing missions, being _Captain America_. If he didn’t have it, he’s pretty sure S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t have bothered with him. At least, some small part of him likes to think they wouldn’t have.

She leads the way out onto the common floor where the others appear to be gathered, not all of them, but some: Stark, Barton, then there’s Nat, and now him. Seems overkill for one beatdown attempt, which means there’s something about this he doesn’t know yet.

He slowly lowers himself onto the round couch in the center of the room where Stark and Barton are, arm wrapped around his middle, and lets his head fall back for a minute, just trying to breathe. Fuckin’ _hurts_.

“Well you look like shit,” Stark comments. Bucky raises his free hand to flip him off before lifting his head back up, looking up from under his baseball cap.

“Got hit by a train,” he snarks darkly, _or close to._ Natasha takes a seat.

“Same ‘train’ that hit our red clad friend?” Stark asks, and she nods, hands resting in her lap.

She looks...honest. It’s kind of weirding him out.

“Care to finally tell us who you think it is?” Stark asks next, and her lips flatten a little, expression even.

“Before I started working with S.H.I.E.L.D., I worked for an organization called the Red Room,” she starts. Clint angles himself more towards her, but doesn’t actually get up and sit next to her. “They had a man there, a trainer. The Winter Soldier.” Clint sits up.

“I thought he was just a myth?” he asks, but Natasha shakes her head a little. “Shit. Really?”

“What’s a ‘Winter Soldier’?” Stark asks, “Jarvis?”

A holoscreen appears above the center coffee table and they all look up, S.H.I.E.L.D. files spreading out and hovering in a half-circle.

“Knew you kept that data,” Barton mutters. Tony sits forward, gesturing the files closer with a couple fingers.

“Let’s see…” he trails off to himself, eyes narrowing a little while he reads over the information. Bucky looks to Natasha. “Roughly twenty-four assassinations in the last fifty years,” he paraphrases, “All over the world. None _confirmed,_ but highly suspected.” He sits back. “Are you sure this is the same guy?"

“I don’t know,” she answers, “Most of the intelligence community thinks he’s a ghost, a myth. The boogeyman. The only information that ties him to any of the incidents are reports of his metal arm from any who witnessed him and lived.”

“Whiiich isn’t exactly a whole lot to go on,” Stark pieces together, “Fifty years, though,” he adds, “He’d be, what, pushing seventy, now?” She sits back a little further against the couch, looking up at the information.

“The same or not,” she starts, “Someone’s here. Metal arm, heavy weight. Strong enough to injure you,” she says the last in his direction, and Bucky rubs his fingers a little, lightly, over his hoodie covered ribs.

“You know if he got a serum?” Bucky asks, because it’s possible. If he did, someone else could’ve, too, at some point. She shrugs her shoulders slightly, looking back up to the files.

“It’s possible he’s enhanced with some version of it,” she answers.

“So...what does he want?” Barton asks after a moment, one corner of his mouth tugged down, “If he’s a ghost, who apparently never misses,” he jerks a thumb towards the screens, “Then why is Barnes still alive? No offense.” Bucky shrugs a shoulder and then winces, letting out a slow breath.

“Packs a wallop, not gonna lie,” he mutters.

“I don’t know,” she answers, looking to Barton, then him. “Daredevil, now Captain America,” she adds, and Bucky holds in a grimace, “We should be prepared.”

“How do we prepare for a ghost?” Barton asks, and Tony pushes himself up to stand.

“Guess you’re all officially staying here for the time being,” he says, sounding more than a little pleased at the prospect as he heads for the kitchen, “Time to bring in the rest of the wayward,” he sing-songs.

Clint makes a noise somewhere between displeased and not wholly convinced, and Bucky drops his head back, staring up at the ceiling.

“Wasn’t really attached to my place, anyway,” he mutters.

____________

“Mission report.”

It lifts its head slightly where it's on its knees on the cement floor, wrists held crossed at its lower back.

“Captain America exhibited few combat abilities,” it reports, “Testing was interrupted by an outside factor.”

“What outside factor?” the handler asks.

“Civilian,” it answers.

Quiet.

“New directive,” the handler starts. It listens. “Dismantle the Avengers one by one. Save the Captain for last. Eliminate outside influences if necessary.”

It lowers its head, waiting.

“Oh, right,” the handler mutters, “Proceed.”

It rises to its feet.

____________

“I’m sorry...about all this,” Bucky says apologetically, gesturing at the room with a hand. Sam looks around, hands in his coat pockets.

“It’s not the _best_ time,” he agrees, leaning back a bit to look at some of the medical equipment and glance out at the night view of the city, “But, can’t say I never wanted to get a look inside.” He grins a bit and Bucky’s lips twitch, then he sighs, staring up at the ceiling for a minute.

“Nat’s assigned a protection detail to you,” he says after a bit. Sam grabs and pulls a chair closer to his bedside in his periphery. “Thought it might be overboard,” Bucky continues, “But looking at the information we might have on the guy and how he _fights_ ; it’s probably a good idea.”

“You know who it is?” Sam asks, and Bucky looks back.

“Classified,” he answers, almost like pulling teeth. Sam nods, understanding, but Bucky still feels guilty. He'd argued with Nat earlier; Sam's life is in _danger_ , he has a _right_ to know, but she wouldn't budge.

“How long?” Sam asks next, “Until he's caught or it's proven I'm not in danger?”

“Pretty much.”

Sam nods again, sitting back in his chair.

They sit in silence for a couple minutes.

“He looked like he got you good,” Sam breaks it, “How you feeling?”

“Well,” Bucky starts nonchalantly, “Said three of my ribs broke, so those are healing, some internal damage.”

“That metal fist of his,” Sam comments, and Bucky blows out a breath.

“That and the _force_ behind it. He's gotta have the serum, or something,” he replies, staring up at the ceiling, “Wouldn't’ve been able to break my ribs in the first place if he were just a regular joe.”

“Deadly assassins, rich scientists, norse gods, serums, _aliens_ ,” Sam lists, and Bucky snorts a sardonic sound, wincing when his ribs ache.

“You’re tellin’ me,” he jokes, “I actually _miss_ red, skull faced egomaniacs these days.” Sam laughs quietly, then pushes himself up after a minute, reaching over to give Bucky’s arm a pat.

“I gotta get going,” he says, “I'll check in later.”

“You don't have to,” Bucky protests, but Sam gives his shoulder a squeeze.

“Gotta make sure I get my book back,” he jokes, nodding his head towards said book sitting on the side table, “And besides, you take the whole ‘drinking terrible coffee’ experience to a whole new level. Accept it.”

Bucky snorts quietly, waving a hand.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

He watches Sam go and then makes himself settle back into the bed, waiting for his ribs to heal. Hopefully Nat and Stark will be able to find this _Winter Soldier_ before he finds any of them.

____________

_Four Nights Later_

Clint crouches low, glancing around before darting across the rooftop. He slows once he's behind some cover and stops to press his back up against the wall, peering around the corner while he reaches up to tap at his comm.

“I'm at the perimeter,” he reports, almost a whisper.

“ _Proceed with infiltration_ ,” Nat reports back.

“Copy that,” he responds, watching the sentry rotation before darting around and crouching low, digging into a pocket and pulling out the small little device Stark gave him, holding it up. The light on the door handle switches from red to green and he glances back to make sure the guards are at their furthest points away before pulling the door open and slipping inside.

-

“ _Going good team?_ ” Stark asks on their comm. Natasha eases herself back into her chair a bit more, keeping her eyes on the little purple blip moving through the infrastructure.

“ _You mean other than the fact that you made A.I.M. in the first place and I could have handled this mission on my own if it weren’t for the Winter Scare?_ ” Clint quips back in a whisper.

A pause.

“ _Okay, first off,_ ” Stark starts, “ _I **accidentally** lead to the birthing of A.I.M_.-”

“ _Please never say ‘birthing’ again_ ,” Clint interrupts.

“- _and second, yeah, that’s what I mean._ ”

“ _I’m in A.I.M.’s server room_ ,” Clint says instead of answering, after a couple minutes, “ _Downloading files_.”

Quiet.

“ _You two are no fun_ ,” Stark snips.

“ _Say, Nat, remember that time Coulson threatened to taser Stark?_ ”

“ _How do you know about that?_ ” Stark asks, offended, “ _He **told** you?_ ”

“ _Download done_ ,” Clint says instead of answering again, “ _Heading o- Wait_.”

She sits up.

“What is it?” she asks.

“... _Oh, **shit**._ ”

She hears a small explosion go off in the comm before the sound of Clint’s breaths, light and quick.

“ _It’s him_ ,” he says quick, “ _Shit! It’shimit’shim why didn’t anyone tell me he was so fa-_ ”

_K-shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-_

The line goes dead.

“Clint?” she asks, already out of the car and running for the building, “Clint!”

A big _explosion_ goes off and she’s thrown back against the car with a pained grunt and solid _thud_ , dropping but still managing to land on her feet like a cat. She looks up, sprinting into the fray and barely sparing a glance for the A.I.M. agents running and yelling around the blazing compound.

The only thing she does spare a glance for is the glint of metal she thinks she sees fire glancing off of in her periphery, but it’s gone when she shifts her eyes to look.

____________

“Hey, Bruce,” Tony says, meeting him at the door, “Thanks for coming in.” Bruce closes the door behind himself. “How is he?” Tony asks, looking through the viewing window.

Barton’s laid up, covered in bandages, one leg in a full cast and elevated, most of his face wrapped up and cushions all around, bed angled up, just slightly.

Bruce sighs quietly, pulling his glasses off and working on cleaning the lenses with the hem of his shirt.

“He’s covered in second degree burns,” Bruce starts, looking into the room with him, “It would have been worse, if Natasha hadn’t pulled him out when she had. His jaw is fractured, four ribs are broken, his left leg is broken, and his right forearm is fractured, not all from an explosion.” He glances over at Tony and Tony’s mouth tightens. “And you’re sure this was caused by the same guy who attacked Barnes?” he asks, looking to Tony.

“I was listening when it happened,” Stark replies, expression tightening, “It was him.”

“Well, if his goal was to kill, Barton must’ve done something to avoid it,” Bruce says, looking back into the room, “The explosion probably saved his life.”

It’s quiet for a minute.

“How’s Natasha holding up?” Bruce asks, quieter.

“She’s trying to get a hold of Thor to let him know what’s happening, and the good Captain,” Stark replies with a hint of sarcasm at the name, then going serious again, “Is also trying to find any leads on our mysterious Soldier. I have Jarvis running scans across radio, street cameras, security cameras, but so far, nothing,” he finishes, a little strained.

“Are you sure you want all of us here? In one spot?” Bruce asks after a few moments, looking over at him again, “I’m pretty sure he can’t kill me, but the rest of you? Are you sure getting us all together isn’t the goal?”

Tony sighs quietly, shaking his head a little.

“Honestly? I don’t know,” he replies, “But what I _do_ know is we’re stronger together. Statistically speaking, his chances are lower if he’s forced to come at us all at once, even if it is a risk for us to all be here.”

“But Tony,” Bruce starts, “We can’t all just live in the Tower indefinitely. We have to leave at some point, especially Thor, Barnes, and Ms. Romanoff. Me.”

Tony doesn’t have anything to counter that with, and he hears Bruce sigh quietly, looking back into the room.

“What about Ms. Potts?” Bruce asks after a bit.

“I’ve got a detail on her,” Tony replies, fingers barely twitching, briefly, “Happy reports in every hour with an update.”

“Does she know what’s going on?” Bruce asks next, looking back to him.

“She knows enough,” Tony answers, looking back for a moment, “That someone’s after us, which means they could be after her.”

“And Cap’s friend?” Bruce asks.

“Nothing’s happened, so far,” Tony admits, “We’re keeping all of the protection details up until this is resolved.” He turns around, leaning his lower back against the viewing window ledge. “We need to find out who sent him,” he says after a minute, crossing his arms while he thinks.

“If anyone sent him,” Bruce counters. Tony shrugs slightly.

“Romanoff’s pretty sure,” he says. Bruce frowns.

“Does she have an idea who?” Don’t really need to figure out the _why._

Tony shakes his head, tilting it back to rest the back of it against the glass, staring across at the wall. “None that she’s saying.”

“You think she knows more than she’s letting on,” Bruce deciphers, looking back into the room, “But if she isn’t saying, it’s probably not anything we need to know, yet.” Tony glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Probably,” Bruce adds.

It’s quiet again.

Tony pushes himself up after a few minutes with a sigh, turning to head down the hall.

“Your room’s like you left it,” he calls behind him with a brief wave.

Bruce’s lips twitch while he watches Tony go, turning his head back to look at Barton through the window.

Maybe he’ll check on Betty. Just in case.

____________

_There are so many things that I don’t understand_

_There’s a world within me that I cannot explain_

_Many rooms to explore but the doors look the same_

_I am lost I can’t even remember my name_

“Hey,” Bucky says quietly.

“Hey, man,” Sam replies, stilling where he’s collecting pamphlets back together on a side table. He slips them back into their stand. “What’s up? You look…” Bucky’s mouth and brows tighten.

“Barton was attacked,” he answers quietly, and Sam’s eyebrows rise a little. He looks around before nodding his head towards the next hall and Bucky nods, following. He glances back at his not-as-obvious-as-they-could-be-but-still-pretty-fuckin’-obvious security detail before following Sam into his office, closing the door on them. He walks over and takes a seat when Sam gestures for him to.

“How is he?” Sam asks, taking his own seat behind his desk.

“Critical,” Bucky answers, slumping in his seat a little now that he’s finally allowed to deflate in relative _privacy,_ “But he’ll live. He’s battered to hell and back.” Sam frowns and Bucky sighs. “I wanted to let you know in person.”

“I appreciate it,” Sam replies honestly, resting his elbows on his desk and clasping his hands together, “You should probably start carrying that shield around more.”

Bucky tenses a little, fingers curling on the arm rests. He slowly makes himself relax again.

“It’s not mine to carry,” he replies, low and quiet.

Sam’s silent for a few moments.

“What would he think? Honestly,” Sam adds, when Bucky slants his eyes up to look at him, “What do you honestly think _he_ would think if he knew? If he could see you carrying it.”

Bucky watches him for a long moment before looking away, then dropping his eyes down while he thinks about it. He doesn’t have to for long, though, because it’s one of his most recurring thoughts, one of the ones he’s been thinking about most since he... _thawed_.

“He’d be surprised, at first,” Bucky answers quietly, lips twitching a little because he can practically _see_ the look that would be on Steve’s face, “Surprised, _angry_ because he’s a mother hen and a hypocrite when he doesn’t mean to be, then...proud.” He swallows. “I think he’d be-... _would’ve_ been, proud, even if I don’t think I deserve it.” Sam’s expression goes gentle, but not soft with sympathy, just...understanding.

“But he’d think you would be,” he says, not asks, “Deserving of it.” Bucky nods jerkily after a moment, just the once, looking back down to his knees.

“That’s one of the worst things,” Bucky says, still quiet, “Carrying that thing around. It’s the only real thing I have of him that...I can use, that I _have to_ use, and I...don’t like carrying it but- But it’s _him_ , you know?” Sam nods a little, and Bucky swallows. “But I hate it, too,” he near whispers, “It’s so damn _heavy_. Steve always made it look so _easy_ , it was just... _in him_ ,” he continues, shaking his head a little, “It’s not...in me, the way it was in him.” He’s had to _work_ for it. Steve did, too, but...it’s not the same.

It’s quiet for a little bit.

“So, what are you all gonna do about this guy?” Sam eventually asks.

Bucky leans back in his chair a little, thinking.

“I’m going to wait,” he replies, body completely still like the sniper he still is, always will be deep down, like it or not, “And then I’m going to catch him.”

Sam watches him for a minute before sitting back in his own chair, eyes on his desk while he thinks.

“I have something I want show you,” he eventually says, looking back up. Bucky sits up a little. “Can you come over?” he asks, playfully quirking a brow. Bucky snorts quietly, cracking a tiny smile.

“Yeah,” he replies, “I don’t need _ma’s_ permission.”

____________

Tony sneezes, wiping a little at his nose with the back of his hand. He grimaces and gets up to go wash his hands.

What was that saying about people talking about you?

____________

Sam drives. Bucky doesn’t bother with a seatbelt. Not like they really had those in cars for a while, anyway. When he glances in his mirror on a turn, he can see his detail following an unsuspecting distance behind. You’d only be able to tell they were following if you noticed it was the same car behind them for five miles. The car itself isn’t even all that suspicious, certainly not sleek and black like the ones that followed him around for a while at the start. S.H.I.E.L.D. must be learning.

When they finally stop, Bucky looks up at what must be Sam’s place. He’s honestly surprised it’s a _house_ and not an apartment. But, in a way, that makes sense, too. He feels like Sam is the kind of person who’d fit better in a house.

Bucky gets out and follows him up the pathway to the front door, only following him inside when Sam invites him in, Sam flicking a switch on in the entryway while he closes the door behind them.

“Wait here a minute?” Sam asks. Bucky nods and Sam disappears around a corner, and Bucky tries and fails not to look around.

He spots family looking photos on the wall, a few that look military. Bucky has to look away at that one, but he hears steps after a moment so he (thankfully) doesn’t get to dwell.

Sam comes back with a folder, stopping and offering it out to him, expression calm, serious. Bucky slowly raises a brow but takes it, looking over the cover.

‘ _EXO-7’_

 _‘FALCON_ ’

Bucky frowns a little, flipping it open.

He pauses at the photo of Sam and a group of guys, another man next to him. He doesn’t look up and he doesn’t ask, ignoring the suspecting twist in his gut while he focuses on the rest of the file. His eyebrows slowly rise.

Damn. It’s like what Stark does, but... _more_. Riskier. Stark’s covered in armor when he flies around, but from these photos...Sam isn’t.

 _Damn_. _That’s cool._

After a couple minutes, Bucky looks up.

“Are you offering?” he asks quietly. Sam nods, crossing his arms comfortably.

“If you need it, I’m here,” he replies, looking up from the folder to Bucky, “I wanted to let you know, too, that I know this is all a bit above my paygrade, but I’m not defenseless.”

“It is above your paygrade,” Bucky half jokes. Sam smiles.

“It is,” he agrees, “But you were thinking I was a _bit_ more civilian, weren’t you.” Bucky concedes that with a nod, lips curled up a bit, and looks back down at the file.

“You still got this lying around?” he asks, looking up. Sam shakes his head.

“No,” he answers, “It’s locked up tight at Fort Meade, beyond my power.”

Bucky looks back down at the file, flipping it back to the front. He lingers on the photo for a moment before closing it.

“Riley,” Sam says quietly, drawing Bucky’s eyes back up. Sam’s eyes are back on the file.

Something in Bucky’s chest tightens.

He looks back down to the folder before handing it back over after a moment.

It’s quiet.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Bucky says, not much louder than the quiet, and Sam looks up, nods.

Bucky nods back, turning for the door. He can hitch a ride with his goon squad.

____________

It finishes setting the last charge, flicking a switch, red light flashing in the shadows.

The videos it’s been shown of the Avengers displayed actions taken against small slights, and large. An explosion in the city will therefore result in high chance of response. The Avengers have not been accessible enough outside of the Tower to warrant sufficient action. Civilian casualties are compliant within mission parameters. It will keep them to only the necessary.

It presses the detonator.

____________

“ _Sir._ ”

“Yeah?” Tony asks, scrolling over files. He’s been over the Winter Soldier ones more times than he cares to count. Maybe if he keeps cross referencing events, going over the _details_ \- there’s got to be _something_.

“ _There has been an explosion in Lenox Hill,_ ” Jarvis finishes. Tony jerks up from where he’s hunched over, whipping around to look out the windows.

There’s smoke coming up in the distance.

“Any sign of a bad guy?” Tony asks, already getting up.

“ _No, Sir_ ,” Jarvis replies, just before another billow of smoke appears near the first. “ _There has been another explosion_ ,” Jarvis reports.

Tony stops. “Pull up the security feeds.”

A holoscreen with a six, mini-screen layout forms just before more smoke goes up in the distance, two tall pillars slowly stretching towards Heaven. Tony’s eyes dart between it and the screen once before focusing on the screen.

“ _Another explosion, Sir_ ,” Jarvis reports, “ _They appear to be forming in a row, currently an equal distance apart_.” Tony pulls up a map, the explosive points flashing in a bright red line, connecting the dots. Sure enough, they are an _exact_ equal distance away. If this continues, the next position will be-

“Call the others,” Tony says hurriedly, throwing his arms out. A wall opens up behind him and his armor comes flying out, jets loud in the silence of the room. They piece themselves to him, _jerking_ his body a bit while he starts running for the opening slider door.

“ _Thor is currently unavailable_ ,” Jarvis says as soon as his helmet’s in place, the last piece slotting in just before he takes off up over the railing, “ _Captain Barnes and Ms. Romanoff are on their way. Doctor Banner asks if he, too, should join?_ ”

“Tell him to wait at the Tower,” Tony replies, zipping around a skyscraper towards the smoke, “Have you alerted the hospital of the threat?”

“ _I have, Sir_ ,” Jarvis answers, “ _They have been informed of a possible, imminent bomb threat and are currently working to evacuate the building_ , _but, Sir_ -”

“It could go off any minute if it’s a target,” Tony finishes for him, angling down in an arc and then slowing to a stop above the commotion, hovering between buildings.

“ _Stark!_ ” he hears after a minute, and glances down and over.

“Cap,” he replies, spotting the red, black, white, and blue. Cap skids his bike to a stop and kicks out the kickstand, taking off at a run towards the hospital.

“What’s the situation?” Barnes asks, pulling his shield off his back.

“I’m having Jarvis scan the building for a bomb now,” Tony replies, “You and Romanoff-” He barely hears something _loud_ screech into the side of his helmet, _shoving_ his head a bit to the side with the force of the impact before everything goes black-

-

“Stark!” Bucky shouts, stopping and whipping around. Red and gold _crashes_ into the ground, denting the cement and kicking up dust, and Bucky covers his eyes and mouth with a forearm, slowly lowering it as soon as the dust starts to settle. His eyes widen. The suit’s in a small crater. “ _Stark!_ ” he shouts, louder, looking between him and the building, gritting his teeth-

Natasha skids her own bike to a stop, not even bothering with the kickstand before running over to Stark, bike crashing to the ground. She gestures to her eyes and then up towards the roofs as she crouches down next to Stark, eyes on him, and Bucky nods, tossing her his shield before running the rest of the way to the hospital. She catches it, gesturing and shouting for a paramedic when an ambulance finally pulls up, shield raised to cover her and Stark in case there’s another shot.

They rush over while Bucky hurries into the building.

____________

Bucky lifts his head when he hears footsteps, fingers laced together. “How is he?”

Bruce pulls off his glasses, focusing on wiping them off with his shirt. “He’s just getting out of surgery now,” he replies quietly, taking a slow moment to examine his glasses before carefully slipping them back on. “They got the bullet out,” he continues, looking up briefly before shifting his gaze to elsewhere, crossing his arms, then un-crossing and re-crossing them, “It appears to be made of a stronger alloy than Tony’s suits, but not by much. That fact saved him.” He sighs after a moment, moving over to drop himself onto the couch like a weighted sack. “The bomb at the hospital has been handled.”

They sit quietly for a few moments, absorbing that information.

“We should tell Ms. Potts,” Bruce says quietly.

“We’re being systematically targeted,” Natasha replies just as quiet, “One by one. We shouldn’t, yet.”

“We need to _do_ something,” Barnes speaks up after a minute. But _what_ is the real question. How do you attack someone who’s considered a _ghost?_ How do you _find_ someone like that?

“It’s a dead end,” Natasha says, still quiet. He looks up and she looks over at him like she knows what he’s thinking. She probably does. “I’ve tried.”

If _she_ couldn’t find him, then-

“When’s Thor set to get here?” Bruce asks, cutting off Bucky’s train of thought.

“Any-”

“I am here,” Thor interrupts, drawing all their attention as he steps into the room, expression grave. He’s not in his cape for once. It looks...strange, but the wine red jacket is fitting, too. “What do we know of this...Soldier of Winter?” he asks.

“Enhanced, probably,” Natasha answers, sitting up a little more against the back of the couch, arm across the back, “Like Barnes. My skill level or higher. Impossible to find.” Thor’s brows draw a little lower at that and Bucky pushes himself back off of his knees to slump against the back of the couch, dropping his head back to stare up at the ceiling.

“He doesn’t appear to be targeting our friends and acquaintances,” Bucky chips in, “Yet.” Because he’s got an uncomfortable feeling in his gut saying it’s only a matter of time.

“He won’t,” Natasha replies, and he lifts his head to look at her, “Unless it’s necessary.” Thor’s brow furrows a little at that.

“So he is a man of necessity,” Thor pieces together, and she nods before cocking her head slightly to the side.

“Yes, and no,” she answers, making Bucky frown. “Someone’s sent him,” she explains, “He’s not doing this without orders.”

“You seem sure,” Bruce comments, looking at her more closely. She looks back, expression neutrally blank.

“I’m sure,” is all she says. There’s something she’s not saying, and knowing her, it’s probably a lot of something’s.

“So he’s for hire?” Bucky asks, and her expression goes thoughtful.

“Maybe,” she answers. There’s _definitely_ shit she ain’t sayin’.

“Natasha,” Bruce says more firmly, and she glances over towards him again, then up at Thor and finally over at Bucky. “Tony and Barton are in the infirmary,” Bruce continues, “If there’s something we need to know...” He leaves it unfinished, doesn’t have to finish it.

She’s quiet for a minute.

“It’s not anything that would help,” she finally answers, almost sinking a little back into the cushions, “He’s most likely been sent by someone. He doesn’t operate under his own power.”

Bruce frowns a little at that, brow furrowing. “Doesn’t-?”

“ _Pardon the interruption_ ,” Jarvis cuts in, “ _But there has been another explosion in West Harlem_.” Bruce sits up a little straighter at that while they all glance up towards the ceiling. “ _Another has just gone off a block away from the first_ ,” Jarvis reports.

They all look to each other.

“He’s trying again,” Natasha says as she gets up, “If it’s in Harlem, it’s probably directed at you,” she finishes, looking towards Bruce. They move towards the elevator, Bucky grabbing up the shield and helmet off of the couch as he goes.

“I’ll stay here,” Bruce decides, but she shakes her head a little, stepping into the elevator first.

“Stay just a little ways away from here,” she replies. Bucky taps the button for the quinjet hangar. “If _this_ is just a ruse to lure us out, the chances are high that you’ll be the target, this time.”

“He can’t kill me, Natasha,” Bruce replies, quieter. Her lips curve up slightly in a smirk, not a bit of humor in it.

“Do you want to test that theory?” she asks, “He doesn’t have to kill you, just subdue you.” Given what happened to Tony, Bruce slowly shakes his head.

“What about Tony?” he asks.

The elevator slows.

“Stay in the building across the street and keep Jarvis on the line on your phone,” she instructs. Bucky leads the way out. “If anything happens, Jarvis will tell you. Thor?” He raises his head a bit. “Stay close to Tony and watch the Tower. Stay out of sight until necessary.” He nods. “If Bruce is his intended next target, he, hopefully, won’t be expecting you.” Bruce and Thor stop at the edge of the hangar safety line painted bright yellow on the cement.

“Be swift in your victory,” Thor wishes them. Bucky turns a little to give him a brief salute and follows Natasha onto the jet.

“Just the two of us? You sure?” he asks, following her up the ramp and on board.

“We can’t let him get a hold of Bruce, or Thor, especially,” she answers, slipping into the pilot’s seat and flipping various switches. Bucky hits the button to close the back hatch before following her up, leaning against her seat as the hangar door slides open. He slips the helmet on, buckling the strap under his chin, trying not to grit his teeth.

“I’ll be the target?” he says, then sighs. He used to give Steve _shit_ for that. At least _he_ doesn’t have a death wish. Well, not exactly, anymore.

She smirks a little at him over her shoulder. “I’ll be the target.”

He raises his eyebrows.

____________

_And my human heart, won’t mend itself_

_With my own two hands I rip it out the seams, oh it seems_

_I’m my own worst enemy_

Natasha lands the quinjet on a roof a little more than a few blocks away from the fire and they climb out. Bucky jumps over the ledge after a nod and Natasha makes her way to the opposite one, staring out over at the billowing smoke wafting up into the night sky, fire making it glow like-

Like a long time ago.

She shoots a grapple into the edge of the building and falls over it, slowing her descent to a stop and releasing the line, landing in the alley on her feet like a feline.

She starts walking.

She slowly winds her way towards the fire, light getting brighter and brighter the closer she gets, weaving closer then away, then closer again. Her eyes stay on her surroundings, the building roofs and various windows, boarded, cracked, and pristine alike. It’s quiet, almost unrealistically so for the location: no cats calling to each other, no tiny feet of mice and rats scurrying over scarce puddles, no trashcans disturbed by hungry hands and even hungrier mouths.

She keeps walking, sticking to the center of the alleys, and starts singing aloud in Russian. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BDMmj5WgB8c)

_Tili tili bom_

_Close your eyes now_

_Someone’s walking outside the house_

_And knocks on the door_

She steps in a puddle, the sound quiet in the silence.

_Tili tili bom_

_The nightbirds are chirping_

_He is inside the house_

_To visit those who can’t sleep_

_He walks_

_He is coming…_

_Closer_

She hums the few in between notes, eyes slowly scanning the alleyways, the ones she passes and the ones she traverses, little red riding hood in the night forest of skyscrapers looking for the big bad wolf.

_Tili tili bom_

_Can you hear him closing in?_

_Lurking around the corner_

_Staring right at you_

She slows to a stop, eyes finally catching on something, just a sliver from around a corner.

_Tili tili bom_

_The silent night hides everything_

_He sneaks up behind you_

_And he is going to get you_

_He walks_

_He is coming…_

_Closer_

It’s barely there, a barely there glint at the next corner.

She stays where she is.

“ _Are you here to get me?_ ” she calls over softly, still in Russian. He doesn’t move, and she doesn’t either.

They stand there for a few minutes, fire lighting like oil on water off of the small sliver of metal she can see, just barely out of the shadows. He’s doing it on purpose. He would never make that mistake, letting her see him. It’s a courtesy, maybe, letting her see. She doesn’t think he remembers, she doesn’t think he remembers anything, but maybe some part beyond memory knows her. It’s a foolish thought, a dangerous one, but some part of her likes it.

_“He’s going to run at me,” she tells Bucky, making sure he’s listening. He is. He’s a sniper. He notices the things she says and the things she doesn’t say, like Barton. “When he does, you need to-”_

The big bad wolf darts out from around the corner faster than she can blink, heavy tread five feet away before something _flashes_ down in front of him, _banging_ loud off of the cement and he skids to a stop, whipping his gun up-

But Bucky’s already on him, having followed his shield, and he gets the Winter Soldier into a chokehold while she rushes in, gauntlets crackling to life in neon blue. The Winter Soldier throws Barnes off just as she _slams_ her fists into the sides of his neck and he _grunts_ behind the mask, low and guttural, body jerking sharp as his back arches with the electrical charge, fingers splaying like claws and left’s panels rippling erratic up and down the length of his arm.

She holds it for a minute before yanking her hands back and he drops. She leaps back, watching him closely, then glances around, grabbing an old, empty can off of the ground and tossing it at him.

It bounces off his back.

He doesn’t move, not even a twitch.

She looks over to Bucky, who lifts his eyes from the Soldier to her, body tense. He steps closer, _closer_ , reaching down- His hand touches the Soldier, slowly presses flat and the Soldier doesn’t move.

She doesn’t relax, exactly, but she does shift her priorities. “Pick him up,” she instructs, walking over to collect the shield, “Let’s go.”

Barnes looks up at her, unsure for a moment, but slowly shifts over to get arms around him. He hefts the Soldier up, bridal style, eyes widening a little, briefly, before he focuses and starts following. She subtly snaps a picture as she turns, lips twitching faintly as she leads the way back to the jet.

One _big bad wolf_ caught.

____________

_Show me a broken heart and all your scars_

_Baby I’ll take, I’ll take, I’ll take, I’ll take you as you are_

There’s a gurney waiting when they get the jet landed and the back hatch open, left next to the inside door of the Tower. Barnes runs over to wheel it to the jet while she stays next to the Soldier, gauntlet next to his neck and glowing, ready. She keeps it trained on him while Barnes gets him on the gurney, and then when they’re wheeling him down and out of the jet, inside, the floor cleared as requested. They take the larger elevator all the way down, or close to, down into the sub-level floors.

Barnes pushes the gurney while she keeps her guard up as they make their way down the hall, trying not to let her eyes linger, but can’t help glancing over.

The lights overhead flash down the length of his body, each one they pass under, over all the _black_ and _leather_ and _kevlar,_ straps and metal. The red star is stark under the strips of light, looks the same as it ever did, as far as her memory goes. But that’s unreliable, memory. He’s not as massive as she remembers, either, but still _big,_ body peaking over the edges of the gurney mattress.

She glances to Barnes and he nods, and she gives the Soldier one last check to make sure he’s still out before running ahead, scanning her palm and retina to get the door open.

Barnes quickly wheels him inside and gets him off of the gurney and down onto the ground. They work quickly to disarm him as much as they can, leaving the mask and goggles for now, before just as quickly backing out of the room. She palms the door shut, weapons on the gurney next to her, and ten consecutive locks slide and click into place.

They both stare at the door for a moment before glancing to each other, then she turns, pulling the gurney along with her, and hears his steps follow a moment later.

“Are all of his transmitters being blocked?” she asks.

“ _Yes, Ms. Romanoff_ ,” Jarvis replies from all over, almost echoing out of the elevator as the doors slide open and they both step inside, “ _Shall I tell Doctor Banner to return to the Tower?_ ”

“Not just yet,” she answers, Barnes’ fist hitting the button for Lock Up, “Wait four hours to make sure there wasn’t anyone following us before calling him back in.”

“ _I will inform Doctor Banner,_ ” Jarvis replies, and then it’s quiet.

“This is a lot of weaponry,” Barnes comments, eyes on the array of them on the gurney.

“He doesn’t travel light,” she half-jokes, but his lips only twitch a little.

“So that’s what he looks like,” Barnes says after a quiet minute, the elevator slowing, “I didn’t get a good look at him when he attacked me at the VA.” She doesn’t say anything to that, stepping out once the elevator doors slide open and pulling the gurney with her.

They dispense the weaponry in a containment box and seal it shut. She’ll go over it later. For now, he’ll be up soon.

Barnes follows her back into the elevator and she hits the button for the med floor, dropping off the gurney before tapping the button for the communal floor.

“How much longer?” Barnes asks, unbuckling and pulling off his helmet and sucking in a breath, eyes falling shut for a moment and head tilting back. His hair’s sticking up, a mess.

Her lips twitch before she focuses again.

“Half an hour or less,” she answers, the elevator slowing. She steps out and he follows, Thor already sitting on the round couch. He stands when he sees them, arms crossing.

“The fires have been handled by the local authorities,” he reports, expression grave, “Lives were lost. Not many, but some perished in the fires.”

“They weren’t his priority,” she replies, “He would have kept civilian casualties to only what was necessary.” Thor’s expression tightens.

“This assassin is a loathsome man,” he says.

“It’s not him we need to worry about,” she returns, and Thor lifts his head slightly. “Whoever sent him will realize he isn’t coming back,” she continues, “We should expect more.” Unless things have changed since the Red Room. There could be protocols in place she doesn’t know. There _are_ probably protocols in place that she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know enough. It’s like an annoying tic in the back of her mind.

“ _Ms. Romanoff_ ,” Jarvis says after a moment, a holoscreen materializing of the sub-level cell, “ _He is waking_.”

The Winter Soldier barely moves, but if she looks close enough, she can see it: the twitch of his fingers, the slight movement of his head. After a minute, he sits up all the way, straight and slow, like doll, like a machine, like the dead from those ridiculous movies Stark can barely sit still through. He slowly turns his head a little from left to right and then stands, slow and just a little stiff, but mostly smooth, any discomfort from the movements hidden behind dark goggles and a mask.

She holds her breath.

He doesn’t do anything, just stands there. She waits a long minute, ignores the quiet question from Barnes and the louder one from Thor, sees them shift in her periphery but keeps her eyes on the screen, watching closely.

The panels on his left arm suddenly shift down into a _point_ and he raises it towards his neck, head dropping back-

“ _Shock it!_ ” she orders, Barnes’ and Thor’s words halting, and the Soldier _jerks_ , back bowing at the electricity. It stops and he drops to his knees, then falls forward, landing face first on the floor.

She lets out a slow breath.

So procedures haven’t changed much.

“We need to remove his arm and leg, and check his teeth,” she says, heading for the elevator.

“Leg?” Barnes’ voice asks. She glances back over her shoulder to his see his eyebrows raised, understanding slowly filtering in while Thor’s eyebrows rise a bit, too, following them into the elevator.

They stop at the med floor and Tony’s workshop on the way down, and then they’re walking down the hall and palming and retina scanning the door open, both flanking her.

“Keep your guard up,” she warns, kneeling down next to the Soldier. She pulls a knife out and flicks it open, reaching down to pinch the material of his left pant leg between her fingers and then slicing down the length of the top of it. She spreads it open after and hears Barnes suck in a breath.

“That’s why he was heavy,” he says quietly, mostly to himself, and she gets to work. “Shouldn’t we wait for Stark?” he asks after a minute.

“There’s no time. And I don’t want to keep shocking him,” she replies, reaching into the bag of tools she collected, “I know what I’m doing.” _Mostly._ Stark’s not the only one in the Tower who knows mechanics and engineering. It’s not her main skill, but she’s proficient enough for this.

It’s slow, slower than she’d like, and tedious, but she checks each panel as quickly and efficiently as she can before she starts removing the left leg from it’s locking mechanism in his thigh, repeating the same with his right arm, passing them back to Thor for him to carry out of the room. She runs into a trip wire or five, but manages to get them undone without killing him or triggering any of the reactive responses.

She sees a hand in her periphery and glances up while she puts the tools back in the bag, pulling out the bindings Stark’s been working on in secret. They’re meant to hold someone like Bucky, maybe Thor. She knows they haven’t been tested yet, that they’re just a prototype, that she’s not even supposed to _know_ about them, but now seems like a good enough time to test them. They can’t have the Soldier killing himself before they can get answers.

“Remove his lower mask and check his teeth for a cyanide capsule,” she orders calmly, hoping it’ll redirect Barnes’ hands. It does. He pauses, lowering them from where they’ve just settled on the goggles to the lower mask, feeling the straps out and unclasping them at the back of the Soldier’s head.

She gestures for Thor to roll him onto his side so she can tie the Soldier’s remaining arm and leg together, ignoring the grim look on his face. They’ll have time to consider things like _dignity_ later. They’re on a clock she doesn’t know the ending time of. Barnes works out and pockets a tooth, reaching for the goggles just as she finishes getting the bindings tied, making sure they’re tight.

She watches as she stands, waiting for the inevitable.

He pulls the goggles off, eyes slowly widening while his breath stills, and she looks over to Thor, tipping her head subtly towards Barnes when he frowns back. He moves around the Soldier.

“Steve…?” Bucky asks, voice shaky, and falls down on his rear end, hand coming up to cover his mouth. The Soldier shifts a little and she heads for the door.

“Grab him,” she orders. Thor frowns a little but quickly moves forward, gripping and hauling Barnes up by his biceps and almost carrying him out the door just as the Soldier’s eyes open, slanting after a moment to follow.

“Steve…? Steve! It’s me!” Barnes shouts, starting to struggle.

The Soldier tests the bonds, takes stock of himself, and shifts a little to keep his eyes on them. Natasha stops just past the door, hand ready over the palm reader while Barnes struggles in Thor’s grip, who comes to a stop at her side.

“It’s me!” Barnes repeats, wriggling as much as he can while Thor tightens his hold, looking over to her, brows pulled together, “It’s Bucky!”

The Soldier stares, blinking slow. “Who is Bucky?” he asks, voice rough and scratchy, disused.

Barnes stills.

Natasha palms the door shut, the Soldier’s eyes shifting to her just before the sliding door takes him out of sight.

_Who is Steve?_


	2. Marrow

_Eyes on fire, your spine is ablaze_

_Felling any foe with my gaze_

_And just in time, in the right place_

_Steadily emerging with grace_

 

Barnes is quiet the whole ride up, head down and bangs blocking his eyes. Thor sets him down five floors up and he nearly stumbles into the wall, bracing a hand on and leaning against it. The elevator slows to a stop, doors sliding open. Thor watches Bucky for a minute before reaching over-

Bucky shies away, swallowing, and Thor stops, retracting his hand.

“Come, friend Barnes,” he says, soft and quiet and gentle over all the metaphorical, cut up glass laid at their feet, “We have much to discuss about your...friend?” Bucky flinches, barely, at the word, “When you are ready.”

It’s silent for another long minute that seems to stretch on into forever, then Barnes moves, pushing himself up off of the wall and not-quite shuffling out of the elevator, stumbling just a little on the threshold.

Together, they watch him make his way to the couch, then Thor’s eyes shift to her.

“Your silence says much, Widow,” he comments, a low and firm baritone.

It’s deeper than a sea, she thinks, more like the deepness one feels when looking into space, seemingly endless and full of things both beautiful and deadly. She’s been described as such, but with him, there’s an electrical current under it, much like her own, but still otherworldly and foreign. It’s hard to separate them in those terms, but it feels different. She is made of stone, marble, while he is made of currents and the center of exploding stars. Dangerous.

“You know more than you say,” he adds after a moment.

She slants her eyes over and watches him, locked in a staring contest for children, looks away first, heading out into the room, Thor’s gentle giant footsteps following behind.

She is not a child anymore, if she ever was. Love is for children, and so are foolish games. This is one she won’t partake in. Battles must be chosen and this is not one she chooses, because she can do that now: choose. No longer is everything a test with death guaranteed at her heels.

-

Bucky’s vaguely aware of the footsteps, but keeps his head down in his hands, view of the floor blurred and unfocused.

_Steve. It was **Steve**. But it couldn’t be Steve. It **can’t** be Steve. But it **was** **Steve**._

He thought he was getting the world straight. He thought he was getting _himself_ straight. He was, wasn’t he? Sure, when the aliens came, down became up, left became right, and the world screamed like a confused newborn, really threw them all for a loop. But he managed, took it in stride. He was starting to think he was getting himself together after it all, after _everything_ ; after the aliens and the ice and the train and the Valkyrie. He quit trying to drown himself in liquor, he started going to those meetings at the VA; he met Sam, who he likes to think he considers an almost friend. He agreed to train with Nat, became _Captain America_ -

_God, **Steve**. It **couldn’t be him** , but it-_

“It was him,” he mumbles, thinks he mumbles it one more time before he slowly lifts his head, aimlessly seeing eyes barely shifting left to gradually focus on the red of Natasha, then on her face, blur of it shifting into focus. “It was Steve,” he repeats, louder.

She stares back, calm as an ocean, or maybe a storm, fuck if he knows. Fuck if he knows anything right now. But they’re calm, and steady, which is about the opposite of the thing slowly rising up into and filling his chest, the swell and curdle of _confusion_ and _rage_. Something about her stillness makes him feel riled, makes him want to revolt, makes him want to lash out. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, far from, but she-

His eyes slowly widen.

Thor. It was Thor. Thor gripped him and pulled him up. Why did he do that? Bucky wasn’t in harm’s way. The Winter Sold- _Steve_ was tied up, missing his-

Bucky cuts off that train of thought, can’t go there.

But she _knew_. She knew _so much_ about the Winter Soldier. She _knows_ so much about him, so much she wouldn’t say. He didn’t begrudge her that at the time, understood it, even. He was the _last_ person to begrudge _anyone_ not wanting to talk. They all have things they don’t want to talk about, _especially_ if it’s the past, but-

 _She knows so much_ -

“Did you know?” he asks numbly, voice hollow while he stares, the edges of her blurring in with the background, “ _Did you know_ -”

She rolls her shoulders back slightly, shifts her weight on the balls of her feet like she’s getting ready for a fight.

 _Makes it noticeable_ , some far, far away back corner of his mind whispers, but he’s already up off the couch, fingers curled in the front of her suit and face close, noses almost brushing.

“ _Did- Did you_ -” he cuts himself off, makes an angry, _broken_ sound when she just meets his eyes steady as they’ve been this whole time. He stands there, body slowly trembling, then _shaking_ , fingers so tight in her uniform the material’s on the verge of _tearing_.

He’s vaguely aware of Thor, can see him in his periphery, ready to act if Bucky goes too far, like _he’s_ the animal that needs to be caged when Steve’s-

“What’s going on?”

He flinches a little.

Banner’s voice. Because of course it’s fuckin’ _Banner_.

Bucky’s been angry. Bucky’s been angry since before the train, even more so when he woke up, at the injustice of it and how _unfair_ it was. He figured that was just his luck, because of _course_ he fuckin’ lived when he’d _wanted to die_. _Of course_.

But now, here’s fuckin’ _Doctor Banner_ , king of _rage_ and _anger_ when that’s all Bucky _feels_ , an all consuming _rage_ , when all he wants to do is _wrap his hands around Natasha’s throat_ and _squeeze the damn answers out of her that she won’t say_.

Is this how Doctor Banner feels? All the damn time? How does he _live_ like this.

Bucky lets go and jerks his hands back, forces himself back a few steps and then heads around her straight for the elevator, head down.

“Don’t go down and talk to him if you want him to live,” Natasha’s voice warns, like a yardstick snapped on his desk in grade school, sharp and cutting straight down past reason and into instinct. It hurts no fuckin’ _less_.

He stalks into the elevator and slams his fist on the button for the gym almost hard enough to leave a dent, and the doors slide closed.

After a moment, he slams the emergency stop and then jabs the button for the communal floor.

The doors slide open and he stalks back out, eyes focused on her.

“ _Tell me,_ ” he demands, coming to a stop a foot away, because he won’t beg, not yet, not unless she doesn’t answer. He’s full of rage, but there’s so much desperation down below it, a damn, abyssal _pit_ of it. “Tell me,” he repeats, and there it is, his voice barely cracking with what he’s trying to hide. _Damn it_.

Natasha watches him for a minute before walking over and taking a seat on the couch. She doesn’t make him drop to his knees and beg, at least.

Small mercies that save us from dying slow.

____________

_Round and around and around and around we go_

“ _Romanova!_ ”

Her eyes snap forward, back straight.

“ _Twenty-eight, step forward._ ”

She does, three steps, stops, wrists crossed at her back. Madame Mistress comes up from her left, walking the length of their perfect row. Natalia is the last in line, but she will be the first to train today, she thinks. She has been slowly moving ahead of the others; a fact.

“ _You will be the first_ ,” Madame says, gesturing an arm towards the mat with swan-like grace, long, patient movements, “ _Enter center_.”

Natalia walks, steps light and balanced. She glances towards the men along the far wall, a small group of three. The only men allowed here are instructors, but these are something else. An older, bald man, a younger one with dark hair, and a younger one still, closer to her age. They brought a new beast with them. They are all beasts, here, so this makes sense, beasts under the guise of children and women and men.

She is a beast, too. A fact.

She slants her eyes forward, slowing to a stop.

Her opponent- the new beast, new trainer, this time, is tall, much taller than she is, though Madame says she will grow taller still. She is fifteen now, young enough to still have some room to grow, they say. But this...new beast, is _tall_ , like a tower, like a mountain, but not quite.

“ _Begin_.”

He charges-

 _Fast_.

She dodges quick to the side but a hand grabs her ankle, bones grinding in the grip, and she’s thrown down _hard_ into the mat, blood coming up the back of her throat. She coughs it out while rolling onto her side after the beast takes a step back, the motion void of concern she could almost pretend was there. There is no concern in this place, no sympathy or care for another’s well being beyond the necessary.

“ _Again_ ,” Madame orders, and Natalia pushes herself up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

He charges again, steps sounding heavy enough to crush mountains, and she doesn’t dodge this time, instead dropping what little there is of her body weight and cartwheeling it down, hands hitting the mat while she swings her legs up, hooking them around his left arm. Metal panels shift under her skin and she swings the rest of her body up, hands going for his face-

He goes to throw her and she grabs his shirt instead, letting go with her legs and using his momentum to swing herself around behind him, twisting up. She gets her thighs gripped tight either side of his neck and _squeezes_ _with everything she has_ -

She hears a faint _gagging_ sound and then warm and cool hands grip her legs and she’s _thrown_ again like she weighs nothing, like a doll, skidding then rolling across the mat. She rolls up into a hunched crouch, coughing out more _warm-red_ and looks up-

His fist is already coming down-

She throws herself to the side, scurrying up and leaping over a whirring kick, legs pulled up tight under her in the air, weightless and vulnerable for a bare moment, too long. She throws her palms up just as his punch is about to connect with her chest and she’s thrown back again with the force of it, pain spider-webbing up her hands and throughout her arms. She rolls across and off the mat onto hard floor, world spinning _bright-dark-bright-dark_ until she stops, face down in _dark_.

She pushes herself up, arms sore, shaky already.

She’s expecting disappointment when she lifts her head, or pride at knocking her down, but when her eyes meet his, for the briefest moment, they are just…

Kind.

-

She’s thrown to the mat-

She gets up.

-

She’s thrown to the mat-

Her leg is broken.

She gets up-

-

She’s thrown to the mat-

Her arm is broken this time.

She gets up-

-

She’s thrown to the mat-

Her wrist.

She gets up-

-

One week straight of training and she is black and blue; one month after to give her bones time to heal and she starts training again.

-

She heads down the hall, knuckles bloody and wrist bandaged. Yelena has a broken nose now in the infirmary.

“ _You are a coward, Natalia!” Yelena taunts, pointing a bandaged, broken finger at her, “Queen in her throne. They **dote** on you, give you special treatment,” she practically snarls, “Shape you best and train you hardest, make **you** their prized pupil. You could go **there** and not get a punishment at all!_” _She sneers, lips twisting between her bandages like a gnarled smirk._

‘ _There_ ’ is the farthest east wing, restricted to trainees and recruits. ‘ _There_ ’ is barely-there, faint screams late in the night. It is a dare, a taunt meant to entice her to look or risk her pride. And she _has_ pride, in her skills, but not of the rewards. It is a pride all her own, not at the mercy of the hands of the Madame or the Red Room, or Yelena.

Natalia will go because _she_ is curious, and she is.

She keeps her steps light and quiet. It’s become natural, quiet as the cats they are sometimes told to chase, bells around little girl’s necks like they are the pets. They are, maybe. It would not be a surprise to learn it.

She keeps walking, something shifting in her periphery-

She stills, hair on the back of her neck standing on end and eyes widening fractionally. She slowly turns her head.

He is kneeling a ways down the hall, her trainer. The Winter Soldier, she’s heard them call him, head bowed and wrists crossed at his back in submission. The shadows cover him like a black blanket clinging to whatever they can reach: the ridges of his vest and face, his hair, shadows following his bangs slanted down a cheekbone and the length of his jaw. His head rises slightly and turns just the smallest amount, and she can’t see it from here, but she feels his gaze on her all the same, watching, assessing.

She moves to step down the hall-

A door opens behind him, light casting away the shadows and she leaps back behind the corner, listening for a moment before slowly, slowly peeking around it.

The older man steps out, the one from the training room, the bald one. She can’t hear him, doesn’t think he says anything for a minute, just looks at the Soldier and rests a hand on top of his head like a dog. The Soldier tilts its head, just slightly.

Like a dog.

She turns around and heads back the way she came, silent like the shadows.

This place is full of beasts, even ones who pretend to be man, even ones from outside its walls.

She turns down another hall, heading for her room. She doesn’t need her nose broken for seeing something she shouldn’t, too.

Or worse.

-

She lies awake all night, waiting for them to come. He is a dog, he will tell them of her presence earlier and they will come to punish her.

-

They never come.

\--

_Am I defined, by the way they look at me_

_Will I be tried, will they take what I believe_

_I shiver on the one, I breathe for two_

_I give you what you want, I bend the truth_

_And everything’s aflame, it’s all aglow I know that I can play that game, I fool them all_

“ _Dog_ ,” she calls two weeks later, pausing with the door open, held against the wind. Because he is one, a fact, just like her hair is red and his is not.

She hobbles out after a few moments of no response, wasn’t expecting one, crutch digging into her armpit beneath her scratchy coat. “ _Soldier_.” The door bangs shut, but he still doesn’t turn around, just stares out across the snow.

He broke her other leg, this time. She did not miss having to use a crutch. She is getting faster, though, lasting longer on the mat. They have increased her protein intake and training over the past month. She trains with him the longest, now. She is getting stronger.

She stops at the raised edge of the roof a few feet away, looking out over the snow, too. The trees are covered and the wind blows strong, yanking at her coat, edges of it flapping in the wind, the ice trying to find home in the moisture of her eyes and nose and mouth. It stings, sharp and quick.

She glances over.

His eyes are more gray out here, lighter from all the reflective white.

She thinks she understands why he keeps breaking her, happened across the thought last week, laying on her bed and staring at her porridge colored ceiling, the cracks of gray peeking through the paint like snowy mountains outlined in gray clouds.

“ _You want me to live_ ,” she states. He still doesn’t look. “ _Why?_ ” He doesn’t look over at that, either. She feels frustration, but it’s a sliver-small thing.

It’s not the only explanation she could come up with, and she’s overstating her importance and relevance deciding to use it, but his eyes...They never told him to break her and she’s not wholly sure they expected it, they might have, probably had, but-

His eyes.

_Kind._

The wind grows stronger and she pulls her coat closer, huddling into it a bit more and gripping her crutch tighter. He shifts slightly in her periphery and she looks, catches him angling his body more towards hers. It blocks some of the wind, only just, but it does.

“ _Fire_ ,” he eventually says. His voice is low, quiet and scratchy and deep, his Russian stilted, off. Not his first language, then. There is nothing here she can compare his voice to but the resolve that breaks or strengthens in the Red Room, the depth of the east wing and its screams. But not quite that, either. He is not quite anything, when she thinks about it, no set definite but his steadiness. Not even his strength is reliable, here ( _as she’s seen when she wasn’t meant to_ ).

He looks at her, then, and the look in his eyes sinks below the surface of her annoyance and tolerance, somewhere deep with no name, someplace she does not want to name or feel for another, not in this place where they are all different shapes of the same, taken and broken and forged into cookie cutter copies with the sharpest edges.

Such a thing does not belong here.

“ _You’re like fire_ ,” he says, still quiet, but they’re close enough that she can hear him over the wind and snow, just barely. He looks out at the trees again. “ _I didn’t remember, until I met you, what fire was_.”

She watches him for a minute, his eyes eventually shifting back to hers, and then _she_ looks away, out at the snow and trees.

After a minute, she shrugs her coat off, balancing on one foot for a moment to switch the crutch to the other side, and then offers the coat over. He stares at it, then at her, and frowns, just a little, like he can’t understand. Maybe he can’t.

“ _You’ll get cold_ ,” she explains, then realizes that he hasn’t actually reacted to the cold at all. He’s in leather and a harness and pants and boots, what he usually wears, what little that shows of his skin almost as pale as the snow around them. She’s not sure how long he’s been out here, but he looks almost like he can’t feel it anymore.

She was born in this kind of weather and _she_ can feel it.

He looks back down at the coat, stares so long she’s almost sure he won’t take it, then eventually, slowly, he reaches a hand out. He hesitates for a moment before reaching the rest of the way and grabbing hold of it, and she lets go.

He doesn’t let it fly away in the wind.

The Soldier pulls it close to his chest, then slowly pulls it on. It is tight on him, and some of the seams pop and tear, but he doesn’t over stretch his arms and it stays. She raises her head a bit, approving, and could almost swear on her favorite knife that his lips twitch, just a tiny bit.

She lets it go and looks out at the snow with him for a few more minutes, then hobbles her way back inside, red hair whipping in the wind.

Maybe it does look like fire, in the snow.

____________

_When the secret’s out_

_When the wounded sing_

_What’s lost is found_

_You trouble me_

_It’s troubling_

“He trained me for two years,” Natasha continues, gaze focused on the table, “Sometimes he didn’t remember me, sometimes it came back. I did eventually sneak the rest of the way into the east hall,” she looks out towards the windows, “That’s where they were wiping him while he was there. I had more difficulty sleeping when I found out some of the screams I’d barely hear at night were his.”

She doesn’t say that they were more terrifying that way, when she knew, that she could recognize the tone of his voice in the echoes, that the agony in her chest that she tried to ignore and force away at the time was so little in comparison to the one in his voice. That she made herself meet his eyes every time they sparred or stood on the roof, especially when he didn’t recognize her.

She shouldn’t have gotten so close to him. She doesn’t doubt she’s part of the reason for the wipes, even if they would have happened anyway. You don’t get close to someone without leaving marks, forming attachments, intentional or not. It just depends on how well you can distance yourself during, after, and how much you can stand to cut away when it’s all done.

She checks on Bucky out of the corner of her eye.

He’s still hunched over, forehead pressed to his clasped hands like he’s praying. He might be.

She looks back out the window.

“I could eventually hold my own for two minutes, then five, then ten. I only beat him once or twice, but I was able to hold my own longer and longer,” she says, “Sometimes I’d find him on that roof. I’d sneak food up once in a while, things to draw even less. He liked to do that, though, sometimes.” Even when he didn’t remember her, his fingers seemed to remember that.

Bucky hunches in further in her periphery, but she keeps going.

“The breaking point was during another sparring session. I was fighting another instructor while he assessed, someone who fought dirty. It was part of the training, but I was stabbed in the chest. When I’d got my eyes open, he’d crushed the instructor’s throat,” she pauses, “Threw off the others that had come to pull him back. He disobeyed. I didn’t see him anymore after that.” She goes quiet for a minute, eyes lowering to the floor.

“I asked, when I woke up, but they just said he’d been taken back. I didn’t know to where.” Her fingers curl a little against the back of the couch. “But I understood then, better than any other time, why he kept breaking me over and over,” she continues, looking back up at the windows, “He was hard on me so that I could stand everything else better, so that I would live through it. It was a kindness, but a cruelty, sometimes, too.” Especially in the later years when things _did_ get harder, outside of the physical. To live through lessons taught by the Red Room and outside it.

She looks over and Barnes is almost a ball. Bruce looks uncomfortable, arms crossed and expression pinched, and Thor looks grim and...sorrowful, if she had to pick a word. He has an abundance of empathy, though, and listens more than the others give him credit for, she’s observed.

Barnes sits up after a few minutes, slowly uncurling from his shell, bangs blocking his eyes from view. She can almost see the cracks in him, and all the dust.

“He was in there. Steve,” he clarifies, voice quiet and rough. She holds in a sigh.

“This was a long time ago, Bucky,” she says, not quite soft, not quite gentle. He flinches a little at the name. She doesn’t use it often, for a purpose.

“But he was in there,” he argues, voice stronger, “He protected you. You said he liked to draw-”

“ _James_ ,” she says more firmly, and he stops, fingers twitching on the tops of his thighs. “The man downstairs is not the man I knew,” she continues. His breathing picks up a little. “He’s not the man _you_ knew.” His fingers curl into fists.

“I can’t just-” he cuts himself off, hunching down a little again, “I can’t just _give up_ on him!” he shouts, gripping the sides of his head. He jolts up from the couch, disturbing the stillness of the room. “I can’t-” he takes a few steps towards the elevator then stops, fists lowering to his sides, impotent, useless. They uncurl a little and then squeeze again, and she watches. It’s interesting to watch, always has been, emotions taking physical form. That’s partially why she’s so good at what she does. She _watches,_ and sees.

His shoulders bunch up a bit, and then he storms back around, stalking back and forth. He’s going to pace a hole in the floor at the rate he’s going.

“I can’t just- It’s _**Steve**_ ,” he says, plain and pleading and heartbroken. He jerks to a stop, jerking his head up so his eyes can find hers, like it’s _her_ he needs to plead with. Like it’s her who made Steve Rogers what he is.

“Begging me won’t change what he is now,” she says, a little softer than earlier. He jerks back like he’s been hit. “I didn’t make him the way he is, Bucky.”

“Then _who did?”_ he demands, fingers curling into fists again, “This ‘Red Room’? _Who did this to him?_ What are you not _saying?_ ” He takes a step forward and she sends him a look. He stops.

“I don’t know who did this to him,” she replies, flat, cutting, watches his jaw shift as he grits his teeth, “But he’s here now. And we need answers.” He bares his teeth a bit before shaking his head, expression firm.

“We’re not _interrogating him_ ,” he all but growls, “He’s been through _enough, Natasha_.”

“He’s the only one who has answers,” she argues back.

“He’s not just- You were as close to a _friend_ as he _had_ ,” he bites back, and she keeps her own body from giving the small jolt that it wants to, “And you want to go down there and, what? Question him for ten hours straight? Torture information out of him? _What?_ ” She keeps her expression neutral, eyes on his.

“We need answers, James,” she replies calmly.

“Bucky,” he corrects, and she lets it slide away like water, only snagging enough to automatically be taken note of, response remembered for a later date. _He doesn’t like being called James_ , filed under: _ways to wind him up and get a response from him later._

“We won’t find answers by sitting here and doing nothing,” she continues, undeterred, “And he won’t be the only plan in place. There will be more. Catching him is just a temporary pause in someone else’s plan. Clint and Stark are in medical, sedated and injured. They won’t be the only ones if we _don’t get answers_.”

He grits his teeth.

“It’s not worth it.”

She inclines her head just slightly. “Maybe. _We don’t know_ ,” she adds, pointedly.

His fingers curl tight and then he storms off, stalking into the elevator and leaving the room feeling almost empty for a moment, the tension down to a more manageable level.

It’s quiet.

She listens to clothes rustle, glancing over to watch Thor sit back against the couch, eyes on her.

“He said you knew who this Soldier was,” he says. She pushes herself up from the couch.

“Jarvis, please play a Captain America reel from the 1940s,” she says as she heads for the other elevator. “It’s hard not to know America’s greatest hero, even in Russia,” she comments at Bruce’s look, slipping inside after the elevator doors slide open. She hits the button for medical just as she hears the reel start up, music a little scratchy and 1943, moving sepia filling a holoscreen in 2015 just before the doors slide closed.

For a long, long moment, she feels as old as she is.

-

The machines beep a steady, unreliable constant, much like Clint’s and Tony’s conditions. Tony’s doped up in the neighbouring bed. She can just spot his slack, lightly drooling mouth in the gap between Clint’s raised leg and lying one from where she’s sitting. The doctors said they would be fine, but she’s learned all the hard ways that anything could go wrong at any time. Unlike with missions, though, she can’t plan for any ways to make any possible downturns better. There’s nothing she can do but sit here, listen, and wait.

The door opens after a while and she looks up. Doctor Banner stops just inside the room, hands on the door half concealing his body like a shield. “I’ve called Ms. Potts,” he says quietly, “She’s on her way.”

That explains the door shield.

“She’ll be in danger,” Natasha replies, but there’s no real fight in it this time and he can tell. Anyone they know has been in danger since day one, and at least now, the Soldier is currently in containment.

Banner gives a small, but knowing smile, a little regretful, a little self-deprecating, and slips further into the room, letting the door close most of the way under its own momentum. He moves closer, partially under the guise of checking on Tony and Clint. He means it, too, she can tell, so she lets him close some of the distance between them.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks quietly after a minute, finishing checking the machine readings. She inclines her head slightly and resists the childish urge to point out that he already has. Wish one wasted, on to wish two. “What do you plan to do with him? The Winter Soldier-...Captain America.” It comes out a little like wonder. “I grew up learning about him in school. Then, after-...” he trails off, the wonder fading a bit. The low lights in the room make the simmer of hesitation in his brown eyes, turned near black, almost warm, like something the holidays are said to have. Warmth and a feeling of “ _Good will towards all”._

“The man down there,” he continues, picking the thread back up, “He’s not the same. I’m not even sure if who he was could still exist in there at all, from what I’ve seen,” he finishes, looking towards her. It’s a nudge more than a question, but she leans back a little further in her chair and answers anyway.

“I don’t know,” she replies, honest enough it makes her chest ache a bit.

She thinks of _snow storms and stolen food, nibs of charcoal and an ill fitting coat_ and tucks it all back down where it belongs.

“It was different, with me,” she goes out on a limb, a branch, a potential cliff. That’s what trust is, right? “When Clint found me, I was one bullet short of a disaster. The Soldier is missing the entire clip and the whole gun.” Bruce frowns a little and she doesn’t blame him. She was never good with analogies. “What I mean is, I don’t know what state he’s in, how much programming is weighing him. I don’t even know if it’s worth trying to question him about the answers that we need on who sent him.”

“So you want to keep him down there indefinitely?” Bruce asks, not unkindly. She still has to keep her lips from pinching.

“No,” she answers, “But I don’t know if there’s anything left in him to try reaching.” How does one ask a dog if it remembers being human? Or a doll. She had found scraps of herself by the time she met Clint, or made some. For the Soldier, it has probably only been a few days for him being off of his own leash.

Banner frowns a little more pronounced, then sighs quietly, pulling his glasses off and looking down while he cleans them with the end of his shirt. A tic. He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand how someone could do something like that to another human being, even with everything I’ve seen, and been.” He finishes cleaning his glasses and slips them back on. “I don’t think I want to know.”

“You don’t,” she assures him.

It’s quiet again. Just the sounds of the machines filling the stretching silence in the room.

“And what about Barnes?” he asks, quieter. She stares at the bed in front of her, then shifts her eyes up to Clint’s face.

 _What would he say_ , she wonders, _If he were awake_. Maybe that ‘ _the Soldier is one hell of a mess, but we all are’,_ and she should try? But is that a mercy? A kindness? To try and untangle a knot so thick and compiled and packed with years of ice and snow? To try and teach someone to be human again when they’ve been unraveled so completely and so many times?

She doesn’t know.

____________

Bucky stares straight ahead, hears the elevator doors after what’s probably about fifteen minutes - he’s not keeping track - but doesn’t look, just keeps his eyes on the holoscreen, on Steve. He’s still on his side in the room, eyes closed. Bucky can just make out the slight rise and fall of him breathing. It almost looks like he’s sleeping, if Bucky tries to imagine it hard enough. It’s something like the most terrifying, horrifying miracle and a gift all at once.

A heavy tread stops to his left and then he hears clothes rustle, feels the faint warmth of emanating body heat settle against the wall next to him a respectful distance away.

“What was he like?” Thor asks after a while, then his voice, a little louder, turned in his direction, “Your friend.” Bucky doesn’t glance over. “I was shown some short films,” Thor goes on to explain, “But the ‘reels’ seemed to be orchestrated towards your past war efforts, they did not show much of the man acting as himself in the films.”

Bucky wants to snort, but can’t bring himself to. He’s feeling low again, low and high all at once with a sinking pit for a heart and a stomach. If they combine forces, he might really be done for.

_**God** , Steve’s **alive**._

“Steve was- was a real shit,” Bucky eventually starts after a few minutes of patient silence, not sure if he should still being using past or present tense. _God, he has no idea_. “He was always getting into trouble, mostly for the right reasons. Some guy was messin’ with a dame? He’d try and set’em straight. Bullies pickin’ on another kid? He’d run right into it like some masked superhero.” Which he actually grew up to _become_. Neither of them had any idea. “Someone was bein’ real disrespectful? He’d tell’em off. Just got big enough to back it up, with the serum.”

Bucky pauses to try and push the memories down, tries to skim them without wading into the deep. He can’t handle that right now. He’ll have to later, especially with Steve as he is, Bucky knows he will, but for now, he’s still working on building walls.

“He was good though, too, really, _truly_ good, and kind,” he continues, “Had a stubborn streak to hell and back, especially when he’d be getting sick, but his heart...it was real good.” Bucky swallows quietly. “He really became _Captain America_ , lookin’ for me,” he says, quieter, “Came for me not even knowin’ if I was even still alive. Rescued hundreds of P.O.W.s in the process.” And a part of Bucky still hates it, what they turned Steve into, even though- “He had it in him the whole time,” he adds, almost resigned, looking over at Thor, finally, “His body just couldn’t fit his heart until then. He _was_ _Captain America_. Not like me.” The great pretender, wearin’ shoes that’ve always been too big for his damn feet. Bucky felt like an imposter the first time he put the suit on, still does, a shadow, a lie. He belongs in the shadows, Steve in the light, not the other way around. Not like any of this.

A big, warm hand settles on his shoulder and Bucky jolts out of his thoughts, dragging his eyes up and focusing on Thor from where they’d fallen to and gone unfocused on the ground. Thor’s eyes stare back, brighter than Steve’s, he notes absently, and infinitely strong and caring. He reminds Bucky a bit of Steve, has since they met. Maybe that’s part of why Bucky feels comfortable saying all this even though they’ve barely talked outside of Avengers things, even though Bucky hasn’t really told _anyone_.

“ _You are_ Captain America,” Thor says, voice calm and strong and sure, “I do not know your friend as such, but I am sure you have done him proud.”

Bucky swallows, hard, staring for a minute more before eventually dragging his eyes back to the holoscreen. He can’t bring himself to say anything to that.

It’s quiet for a while, something pressing at his chest from the inside until it finally spills over and out-

“It’s heavy,” Bucky all but blurts, quiet. Any louder feels _wrong_. “The suit. The shield. Being- being it.”

It’s quiet for a few moments.

“Mantles often are, I find,” Thor returns quietly, _knowing._ It hits again, then, that Thor is basically a _king_. He’d know better than anyone, Bucky thinks. He also thinks Steve would’ve-...would, like him.

Bucky’s fingers curl into fists next to his thighs.

-

The elevator doors open again after a while. Bucky only looks over when Thor stands next to him, moving to do the same, the holoscreen disintegrating out of sight. He quickly spots and focuses intently on Natasha when he sees her coming down the hall.

“It’s time,” is all she says, heading straight for the door. Bucky steps in front of it and she stops, looking up.

“Natasha,” he starts.

“Let me try,” she cuts him off.

Bucky grits his teeth.

They stare at each other hard for a good, long minute before Bucky slowly, reluctantly steps aside. He watches her walk the rest of the way to the door and scan her palm, pausing to look back over at him.

“Stay out of sight when the door opens,” she warns. Bucky frowns, but steps back further when she just watches him, and only _then_ does she turn her head back around and scan her retina, his eyes immediately shifting to the door when it slides open.

Steve doesn’t say a word or make a sound beyond it, as far as Bucky can hear ( _and his hearing’s pretty damn good now_ ). He’s not sure if that’s good or bad.

____________

_I am lost, I can’t even remember my name_

It hears a door, steps, heartbeats, breath.

It waits. The door stays open, but it cannot escape quickly as it is.

The steps stop.

Quiet.

“ _Soldier_ ,” a voice says in Russian, soft, female, adult.

It keeps its eyes closed.

“ _Dog_.”

Something... _nudges_ loose, somewhere deep beyond the cold.

It cracks its eyes open.

Steps.

Stop.

Quiet.

Humming. The same from-

It squeezes its eyes shut, but otherwise stays still, curled in on its side. Weakness is not tolerated.

The humming stops ( _sixty seconds_ ), then starts again. It-

It makes its head hurt, like it does before it needs the chair, like something in it is going to fall loose-

_Humming. Her voice is high, but thick, and soft, warm, like the blanket father sometimes lets it have when it is especially cold. It doesn’t feel the cold much anymore, but it used to. It can’t remember exactly when, but it feels it in its bones, down deep. It has a hard time remembering then, though. Memories...memories hurt, different from body hurts. It has a hard time focusing when its mind hurts. Not focusing is punished. Distraction is punished. It has to be diligent, father said._

_But the humming. It’s nice. Different from father. He rarely makes music with his voice-_

It curls in tighter, holding in a sound, temples throbbing gently.

As soon as it realizes what it’s doing, it forces itself to uncurl, then opens its eyes.

The humming-

It slants its eyes down.

The woman from the alley stares back, calm and poised, danger made to look gentle. Her eyes are like liquid marble.

“ _Weapon,_ ” it says. She keeps humming. “ _You are a weapon.” Too_ , it doesn’t add _._ Her lips curve up a little like a fox, or a wolf.

It’s not sure what makes it think that.

Her humming stops. The song from the alley, it realizes then.

“ _Just like you_ ,” she replies, voice a not-quite bell-ring in its head. Familiar, but very, very distant, like faint sound in a snowstorm.

It watches her. She watches it back.

She starts humming again.

Something shifts just beyond her in the gap between her body and the doorway and it looks.

A man stares back, leaning around beyond the doorway, hair brown and eyes blue-gray wide. There’s a star on his chest-

It has a star, too.

It glances back to her.

She doesn’t have one, but...she is a weapon. Are they all weapons? The mission brief didn’t say.

“ _Is he a weapon, too?_ ” It slips out before it can stop it and it closes its eyes, grits its teeth. No pain immediately comes, but-

“ _Yes_ ,” her smooth voice answers, “ _He is, but not quite like us_.”

After a minute, it cracks its eyes back open and she...smiles, almost kind. It feels its brow wrinkle slightly.

No pain. That feels wrong.

It glances to the man again then back to her. “ _You_ …” it trails off, remembers its place this time. Even father only permitted questions _sometimes_. Everyone thereafter didn’t approve. They said he’d been lenient.

It wasn’t supposed to hear them.

“ _We were born in pain, you and I_ ,” she says when he doesn’t finish, but it feels... _warmth_ , in its chest.

Her body untenses, both slow and fast, and it... _feels_ like it’s seeing music: beats in the way her blood pumping sounds in its ears, chambers of notes in the way her heart pumps, long, held notes in the way she breathes in and out, slow, coil and uncoil, repeat.

Father liked music. Father, maybe, would have liked her.

It is not supposed to think like that, they say, the technicians, the handlers, or feel. It was supposed to terminate, too, but failed. It has failed so completely since father died. It has failed everything but the main mission, until now.

The tooth has also been removed, it can feel it, the gap where it is supposed to be. It was not trained for reactionary responses beyond self termination if captured, should the tooth and its weapons be removed. It does not...know what to do, now.

It doesn’t know, but she must see something because her expression changes, calculated, but...not like its handlers. Still, part of it hopes she will tell it what to do, or kill it. Even if she tortures it, at least it will be serving a purpose.

She rises to her feet and heads back to the door, and it watches it close, as well as take her and the man’s blue-gray wide eyes out of sight.

____________

_And we will never be alone again, ‘cause it doesn’t happen everyday_

_Kinda counted on you being a friend, can I give it up or give it away_

_Now I thought about what I wanna say, but I never really know where to go_

_So I chained myself to a friend, ‘cause I know it unlocks like a door_

“Does he remember anything?” Bucky asks before he can help himself. Natasha, at least, doesn’t seem to hold it against him.

“No,” she answers, and his insides sink all over again. It didn’t look like Steve did, but Bucky thought, maybe- “He just asked if you were a weapon, like us.”

That sinking something in him _cracks._

He wants wants to drop down somewhere, anywhere. The floor will do.

Her hand grips his arm before he can, small but strong, and he makes himself stop and look up.

She looks back, her usually stoney eyes softer now.

That’s almost _worse_.

“Go home,” she orders, quiet and firm, gentle around the edges but leaving no room for argument, too, “Get some rest.”

He opens his mouth to protest-

“He’s not going anywhere,” she cuts him off before he can even start. He closes his mouth.

He doesn’t want to leave here. He doesn’t want to leave _Steve_ here, _alone_.

But Nat’s with him, and he seems to at least talk to her ( _even if it’s in what sounds like Russian. God, he’s not even speaking in English, or **Irish** , for fuck’s sake_).

But Bucky can be rational, _right?_ He can go away for just an hour, try to put his head together and come back. Maybe...maybe that’ll help Steve, or him. Or both of them.

“ _Tell me_ if anything happens,” Bucky stresses, not quite pleads, voice more flat and hollow than he’d like.

She nods and he stares at her for a long moment, just to be sure ( _even though he can’t exactly tell, but it **looks** like her eyes aren’t lying_ ), before nodding back and stumbling just slightly at his start on the way to the elevator.

As soon as the door’s shut, Bucky drops his back against the wall, holding himself up with his hands on the rails, body trembling.

He only realizes it when the elevator stops, a bit too long after it usually does, that Jarvis was nice enough to slow it down for him, give him a little bit more time.

Bucky slowly pushes himself up off the wall and glances down when his fingers pull slightly when he lets go.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, cringing a little at the dented railing.

“ _I’m calling to have it repaired as we speak, Sir,_ ” Jarvis replies, calm as ever. Bucky looks up to the ceiling.

“Thanks,” he says, “For slowing down the elevator, too.”

“ _You’re welcome, Sir_.”

“Bucky,” Bucky corrects, with the first thing close to a smile in _hours_.

“ _You’re welcome, Bucky_.”

His lips twitch up, just a smidge, and he heads out into the garage.

He probably shouldn’t really be driving, so he won’t, but he’s still in his uniform and he’s got a change of clothes in the backseat.

-

“ _Go home. Get some rest._ ”

 

_How is he supposed to rest?_

He sits back with a sigh, scrubbing his hands down his face before pushing his fingers back through his hair. He pauses, then drops his hands down to his lap and his head back, staring up at the ceiling.

His hair’s getting long. Maybe that’s part of why Steve didn’t recognize him?

_He shouldn’t, at least Natasha said he shouldn’t, but he slowly tilts forward, anyway, just enough to get a look around the door frame. He spots Steve easily enough, eyes skipping over his missing leg and arm._

_It takes a minute, but eventually Steve’s eyes shift to his, and Bucky’s breath catches for the thousandth time in the past day._

_Steve stares at him for a moment before looking away, back to Nat like he doesn’t know him, like he doesn’t recognize him at all, and Bucky’s heart cracks for the millionth time._

He blinks once, slow, squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten. Maybe when he opens them, the world will make some sort of sense again.

He opens them.

It’s not that the world isn’t whole, at least, it is _now_. Steve’s alive, but does that count like this? _Is_ that man in the Tower really Steve?

Does Bucky really care if it _is?_

He blinks again slowly, eyes on the ceiling.

He spent months wishing he was with Steve, or Steve was with him, both of them breathing or both of them not, but never _separate_ , and now, now he’s gotten a twisted answer to that. But is this Steve better than no Steve? Is _any_ Steve better than _no_ Steve?

He closes his eyes for a moment.

The world was emptier without him, that’s just a fact. He could feel it in his bones, _past_ his bones. The world was emptier, darker, missing...missing something big and important that lived inside Steve, that Steve lit inside everyone who met him, good or bad. But it’s twisted now. Is a twisted world better than an emptier one?

But again, does he _care?_

He drags his hands down his face again and sits up, then pushes himself to stand with a sigh, grabbing his coat.

_I wish I could get drunk._

Instead, he goes to wherever his feet seem to be leading him, hands in his coat pockets and breath a warm puff of air in his face; he goes to a friend.

-

“Wait. Say that again?”

Bucky hiccup-burps then shoots down the rest of his bourbon.

“The Winter Soldier is Steve Rogers,” he repeats, grabbing for the bottle again and pouring himself another glass, partly because it tastes good and partly to avoid Wilson’s wide eyed gaze. He can _feel_ it.

He tosses back another shot.

It’s quiet for a full minute, then Sam shoots his own glass back, face scrunching up in a momentary cringe at the taste as he swallows it down.

“I…” Sam trails off, staring straight ahead. Bucky reaches for the bottle again and grunts when the back of Sam’s hand smacks into his own. “Quit drinking all my good liquor like it’s water,” Sam scolds, but it’s at least halfway distracted, “I know you can’t get drunk. You told me when you came in.”

“Hey,” Bucky defends, “Doesn’t mean I can’t still remember and appreciate the _taste_.”

“Yeah, you and that _Last Unicorn_ _skeleton_ ,” Sam mutters. Bucky’s face scrunches up as he frowns over at him. Sam glances back. “‘Bout as old, too,” he adds, softening it with a grin thrown his way against the edge of his tumbler. Bucky snorts after a moment, not getting it, exactly, but getting it enough.

It’s quiet for a minute.

“I can’t believe…” Sam trails off quietly.

Bucky looks down at his glass.

“Well,” Sam says after a few moments, quieter still, “Maybe I can.”

Bucky looks over.

“It’s been a strange year,” Sam clarifies, looking back. Bucky raises his glass and Sam _clinks_ his own quietly against it. They both pour another drink and take a swallow. “What’re you gonna do?” Sam asks, after.

Bucky looks down at his glass again, thinking, trying to think, trying to _something_. He actually thought of it a few drinks ago, what he wanted to do, at some point in the middle of telling Sam everything. He just...isn’t sure if he should _ask_.

 _Ah, to hell with it_. Not like he’s not in hell _already._

Bucky downs the rest of his drink.

“I was wondering...if you’d take a look at him,” he eventually answers, trying to sound as sure as he feels. It’s hard, when the world’s so shaky.

When he looks over, Sam’s eyebrows are so high up on his forehead, Bucky actually gets a little _worried_.

“Bucky,” Sam starts, and Bucky’s shoulders slump even further than they’ve been for the past half hour. “I help vets,” Sam allows, “But this sounds... _way_ beyond me.”

“I think it’s beyond anyone,” Bucky replies quietly, _honestly_ , after a moment, thinks about reaching for the bottle again but settles for staring down at his glass, watching amber remnants slide down half a circle at the bottom when he tilts it. He turns his tumbler a bit on the table, listening to the glass scrape quietly against glazed wood.

He stops.

“Nat’s- Natasha,” he corrects, “She’s tryin’ to talk to him, but something about it...the way she…” he sighs, shrugging slightly, “It bothers me,” he finishes, quieter. It’s like watching two wary, suspicious and wounded animals circle each other, not quite sure if they should _bite_ or _talk_.

He _hates_ thinking of Steve like that.

Bucky grits his teeth.

It’s quiet.

“You don’t have to talk to him,” he adds after a minute, “You don’t even have to be on the same _floor_ as him, I just…” he shakes his head a little. “I want someone’s opinion I can _trust_ ,” he bites out.

Sam’s eyebrows rise a bit again. “You don’t trust your teammates?” he asks quietly.

“With a fight? Yeah,” Bucky answers, “But with Steve…?” He shakes his head a little again, dropping his eyes to his tumbler for a few moments before making himself look back up. “This is different, Sam,” he continues, can feel it deep down in his bones, “We haven’t fought together, but I feel like I can trust you with this, because I feel like I _know_ you’ll only have his best interests at heart, in mind. No other motive.” He knows Sam that well, he thinks, even if they haven’t talked a whole lot.

Bucky’s always had that way about him, reading people. He was good at it before the ice, and he’s good at it now. It’s partially why Natasha puts him on edge so much. He _can’t_ read her nearly as well as the others, even with her having trained him, and what he _can_ read is...dark, confusing, like black snakes in black oil-water, hard to get a grasp on, and when you think you’ve got it, it slips out of your hands and away again. He knows her well enough to trust her in a fight, she’s damn good at what she does and he likes being around her, but this...this is different. This is a whole other _world_ of _different_ , and her... _history_ with Steve, being where she said they were, makes him...it makes him damn _nervous_.

Sam holds his gaze for a long, long minute before he eventually, slowly nods, eyes still on his.

“Alright,” Sam agrees solemnly, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Bucky’s shoulders drop again, for a whole different reason this time, and he’s pretty sure his gratitude is all over his damn face. But whatever, he’ll let himself show a few broken pieces if it means helping Steve. He’ll do whatever he needs to, to do that. He just got Steve _back,_ physically, now he has to try and help Steve get _himself_ back, too.

“Thank you, Sam,” Bucky says earnestly, and Sam reaches for the bottle to pour them both another drink. Even if he can’t get drunk, Bucky’s grateful. He feels like he needs it.

____________

_I got it bad, and that ain’t good_

Bucky sighs, rolling his shoulders, and heads back into the Tower the next night. He spent longer at Sam’s than he initially wanted, but now he’s showered, changed, more rested, still wired but less charged, and...not better, but better _prepared_ , as much as he can be. He’s got a plan, of sorts, which is better than keeping on with _no_ plan.

The first thing he hears when he steps out onto the sub-level floor is the damn _alarm_ blaring, making him jolt, and Jarvis’s voice echoing around the hall while he takes off straight ahead for the cell door.

 _“Captain Rogers is currently trying to suffocate himself. Ms. Romanoff is on her way down from medical._ ”

“That’s gonna be too long,” Bucky replies distractedly, rushing inside as soon as the retinal scan is done and the door slides open.

He doesn’t think about whether he should keep his distance, not touch, doesn’t think about the missing limbs, just runs over as soon as he sees Steve on his front with his face buried in the floor and drops to skid to a stop on his knees next to him, forcing him to roll over-

Steve’s face is screwed up tight, long bangs slanted across it like overgrown shadows and Bucky stares, not sure what to do ( _and maybe partly because he’s never seen Steve with his hair this long in his **life,** and he’s touching **Steve Rogers** for the first time in **months** since he’d thought he’d **died**_ ). He settles for giving Steve’s shoulders a rough shake (careful of the metal edge), and when that doesn’t work, tries to think of what might _shock_ Steve into taking a breath.

After an agonizing moment, he thinks of something and Bucky quickly bends down, pressing his mouth firmly to Steve’s and holding his breath, ignoring the _skip-thudding_ in his chest and hoping-

Steve’s eyes fly open ( _blue, so damn blue how did he forget?_ ) and Bucky jerks himself back as Steve pulls in a gasped breath, eyes wide.

They stare at one another until running steps slowing to a stop behind him draws Steve’s eyes over his shoulder. Bucky’s pulled up by large, warm hands under his armpits while Natasha steps into view.

He sees Steve’s chest rise and fall from around her and only then does he look away, ears acutely attuned to the sound of Steve breathing ( _they always were, **always**_ -)

Natasha says something softly in Russian and Bucky watches the back of her bright red hair, distantly aware of the alarms ceasing and the hands under his arms ( _Thor’s, judging by the faint smell of ozone_ ) sliding away. Natasha says something else, slowly crouching down, and Steve mumbles something back even quieter.

Bucky distantly wonders how he can hear it over the crash-beat of his heart in his ribcage like a megaphone in his ears.

Nat looks back over her shoulder at him for a moment before saying something to Steve and then rising back to her feet. She turns and corralls him out while Bucky stares over her shoulder at Steve, whose eyes are staring distantly at the wall across the room. The door slides closed again, taking Steve away for what feels like the thousandth time.

Bucky stares at the door while she stares up at him, can see her in his periphery.

“What?” he asks, distracted, would snap it if his head wasn’t so scattered.

 _What is it what is it oh God Steve’s breathing he’s breathing I touched him he’s warm he’s alive_ -

“He feels shame,” she replies, then her voice perceptibly softens, “He’s curious about you.”

 _That_ draws Bucky’s eyes away, barely. “That’s _bad?_ ” he asks, raising a brow.

Her mouth pinches minutely, which he’s learned by now is never good.

“James, you don’t understand,” she says, and that same, broken something in him gets chills, “Weapons are not meant to feel.”

Bucky stares, his insides going cold. “Isn’t it good that he _can_ , then…?” he asks, swallowing a little. She looks back towards the room and he watches her closely, sees-...he’s not sure what, but it’s softer than usual and it’s making him anxious.

She looks back up at him, the softness gone. “That might be what breaks him,” she replies, and his brow wrinkles, anxiety digging claws up into his chest.

She moves to walk around him and his anxiety spikes and he blurts out-

“I want someone to look at him.”

She pauses, looking back at him. He forces himself to meet and hold her stare.

“A professional.”

She quirks a brow. “You have someone in mind?” she asks, and he nods. He watches her glance back towards the room before looking back to him, nodding. “Alright,” she agrees, and his insides melt back down to solid. She continues on around him while he pulls out his phone to check the time.

Eight hours. He’ll call Sam in eight hours.

( _And try not to lose his own sanity until then_ ).

____________

Tony starts becoming aware what feels like an _extremely_ short time before he hears the barely there _whoosh_ of a...door? It’s probably a door.

He forces his eyes open a crack, squinting in the bright- soft? Light.

 _Yup_ _(wow, even his mental voice pops the ‘p’_ ). A door. And is that Pepper?

“ _Pepper_ ,” he says, smiling. Or slurs. It feels like he’s slurring. It also feels like he’s on something. He’d check, but she looks _so_ much better than a possible there or not-there morphine drip.

“Tony,” she doesn’t quite breathe out, but it sounds close. At least he thinks it does. Her expression eases and then her eyebrows lower and pull together, her back straightening. He’s in trouble. “You got yourself _shot,_ ” she not-quite scolds, the ‘ _again_ ’ almost loud enough to follow even though she doesn’t say it. But her voice is quiet, almost gentle. It makes him melt a little inside.

“Only a little,” he slurs before he can catch it, feels his face scrunch up when she crosses her arms. He deflates a little and she sighs quietly, then moves to grab the nearby chair, lifting it and setting it back down closer to the bed so it doesn’t scrape across the tile floor like a dying animal.

She takes a seat, watching him while he watches her, blurry and beautiful.

“How are you feeling?” she asks quietly, reaching over to settle a hand over his. He turns his, gently but firmly gripping her fingers. It’s hard, like his body isn’t his, weaker and smaller than he knows it to be. He _hates_ the feeling.

“Pretty sure I’m on a morphine drip,” he replies, lips ticking up. He follows her gaze when it shifts and turns his head, wincing a little and slowing the motion when pain spikes briefly through the numb warmth, eyes finding the blurry, neighbouring bed.

Oh. Barton? He’s pretty _sure_ it’s Barton.

“When’d that happen?” he mumbles, frowning.

“Tony.”

He turns his head back, slowing with another wince at the pain again.

Pepper stares back, eyes focused, intent. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

“Honestly?” he asks, shrugging slightly. No pain this time. _Yay!_ “Not sure yet. Skilled though. Jarvis?” he asks, looking up, but her fingers on his cheek draw his eyes back down.

She leans forward and presses their foreheads together, hair brighter with this sort of... _blurred-glow_ on it, around it, from the drugs and the lights, he’s sure. It’s pretty.

“I can’t tell you not to keep doing what you’re doing,” she says quietly, pulling back just a little so she can look at him, “But be _careful_.”

He nods a little, holding back the wince this time, and she slowly sits back, scooting her chair a bit closer.

“Now,” she says, “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

The screens Jarvis had pulled up un-dim and Tony squints. Pepper has to read them for him.

____________

He blows out a breath and stares up at the Tower.

 _The_ Tower. He’s been here once already, but it’s not getting old any time soon.

A sigh pulls his eyes away and Sam quickly gets his wallet out, pays the cab driver before grabbing his bag and opening the car door, chill air hitting him right in the face as he steps out of its toasty confines. He looks back up at the Tower ( _The Tower_ ), the _bang_ of the door closing pulling him out of the sky in his head.

He takes a deep breath (and coughs a little from the exhaust fumes of the cab pulling away), steals himself, and heads up the steps.

( _And stares up the length of glass and metal almost the whole way to the doors_ ).

-

“ _Look_ ,” Sam hears when the elevator doors open up five minutes later, “I’m not saying we should _kill_ the guy... _yet_ , but I _am_ saying I’d just like to be in the same room with him so I can fire a high density alloy bullet at _his_ skull. Who knows, I might not even hit him!”

Sam pauses, eyes quickly finding Barnes across the room, _Tony Stark (help)_ , Natasha Romanoff, _and_ Thor. Ms. Romanoff spots him first, shortly followed by Thor (who’s wearing an actual _cape_. And he’s tall, _damn_ tall. Sam can tell all the way from over _here_ ). Barnes seems to be in the quick process of getting in _Tony Stark’s ( **the** Tony Stark)_ face.

“We’re not-” Bucky starts.

Sam politely clears his throat, because his mama didn’t raise him to be an eavesdropper. Barnes’ and Stark’s heads both whip around, Stark’s with a wince (though he _is_ wearing bandages around it, so that makes sense).

“ _Sam_ ,” Bucky redirects, entire demeanor shifting from tense to _grateful_. “Thank you for coming,” he says, heading straight for him and offering out a hand.

“No problem,” Sam replies with a smile, shaking it.

“You’ve already met Natasha Romanoff,” Bucky starts, gesturing to the others, “This is Tony Stark and Thor,” he introduces, two of which start heading for him, too. Sam shakes both Ms. Romanoff’s and Thor’s hand (rough and slender, rough and _huge,_ but both with differing textures), trying to contain himself.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Son of Wilson,” Thor greets.

“Likewise,” Sam replies, and his voice comes out as what he’s confident is at _least_ ninety-percent steady. He looks over to Stark, who’s wandered closer but has his arms crossed, eyes roaming over him with an analytical edge.

“Shall we begin,” Ms. Romanoff says, and Stark jerks slightly with a _squawk_ -like noise.

“ _I_ don’t get a formal handshake?” he asks, mock-offended, “What’s he _here_ for-”

“He knows who you are,” Ms. Romanoff cuts him off with a raised eyebrow, “And he’s here to see our guest. You don’t want to do it in person, correct?” she directs the last at him, and Sam straightens a little.

“I’d...prefer not to, just yet,” he agrees. She nods slightly and leads the way over to the couch. He glances towards Bucky, who nods, and follows.

“You should still be in medical,” Ms. Romanoff says, and for a second, Sam thinks she’s talking to him.

“I want to see this in person,” Stark replies.

“What is Ms. Pott’s E.T.A.?” Ms. Romanoff asks aloud.

“ _Ms. Potts will be landing in thirty minutes_ ,” a voice replies from...all over. Must be the ‘Jarvis’ she mentioned last time that he didn’t interact with the last time he was here, the A.I. he read about a while back.

He tries not to jitter and _focus_. He’s here for a reason, not to squeal in excitement like his inner five year old wants to.

“Then I have twenty-five,” Stark replies smoothly, taking a seat on the couch. Sam tries not to raise his eyebrows. Ms. Romanoff does it for him, anyway. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Sam looks back when Bucky looks to him and nods, setting his bag down as he takes his own seat.

“This isn’t a show, Mr. Stark,” Sam says, then looks to Ms. Romanoff, “What can you tell me about him?”

-

“ _Hello?_ ”

It focuses on the sound, the voice, slightly tinny and far away, too far for someone in the room. The door hasn’t opened or shut. Radio?

“ _My name is Sam Wilson. Can I ask your name?_ ”

Name?

Questions cannot be answered if they pertain to the mission, Hydra, or past targets. Personal inquiries are not categorized under given directives, like most of the red haired woman’s. It can answer this question.

“Designation: Winter Soldier,” it answers, loud enough that the voice- Sam Wilson, should hear. It could better gauge the distance if its eyes were open, but that is unnecessary.

Silence.

It goes back to counting its breaths.

“ _Do you go by anything else?_ ” Sam Wilson asks after forty-three seconds and ten breaths.

Does it?

 

“ _Look’at the mouth on you. Your lips were **made** for_ -”

 

Does it?

There are other designations, but they serve no purpose outside cell walls and confined spaces with other Hydra agents, or Father. But Father-

Silence.

“ _So, a friend of mine told me that your eyes are blue, like the sky, maybe with a bit more gray. Do you know what the sky looks like?_ ”

Its eyebrows pull together slightly.

The sky?

_Wings flap, bright in the distance-_

_Snow_ -

It used to, once. A big, cold, beautiful thing?

What is beautiful?

Sam Wilson’s voice is calm, patient, warm like the smell of the coffee the Hydra agents drink when they’re discussing the Outside World at a small, round, worn table opposite The Chair. The opposite of the sky. It wants for nothing, but something about the smell of coffee is...alluring. Alluring is dangerous. Still, that’s a secret it can keep. Father used to-

“Big,” it eventually answers, swaying away from those thoughts. Bigger than everything, than miles and miles of trees and snow and coffee and tables and maybe even pain?

“ _Yeah. Yeah, it is_ ,” Sam Wilson says, quieter, “ _Full of all sorts of colors, too. You like colors?_ ”

Colors?

No one asks it these kinds of questions. It doesn’t know how to answer.

“ _My favorite color is red_ ,” Sam Wilson says, “ _Do you like a particular color?_ ”

Silence.

Red is on the tip of its tongue, like it wants to slip out past its lips like blood, but what it ends up saying is-

“Blue.” Like the sky. Like its eyes. Like-

 _The man’s eyes were blue_ , it thinks, the thought drifting up like smoke from a cloud. The man beyond the red haired woman, beyond the door. Its new handler’s eyes are blue, too, but not like that. Different. It can remember details in clarity, like images, and is only just now realizing it can see things like _that_ in detail, too. Or maybe it always knew (forgot?), but never paid it attention until now, until it’s been prompted.

“ _Blue’s a nice color._ ”

Its brow furrows slightly again. “Colors don’t feel.”

Silence.

Maybe it said something wrong.

“ _No_ ,” Sam Wilson eventually replies, “ _No, they don’t. But they can be very nice to look at. Imagine the world if it was black and white. It’d still be nice, but I prefer color._ ”

 _Me, too_ , some strange part of it thinks before it can process the thought, taking itself by slight surprise. For the briefest moment, it can remember seeing the world without blue, without red.

Silence, again, but different somehow, this time.

-

Someone brings food the next time the door opens, it can smell it. Despite its stomach’s protests, it does not move.

Lying still and denying its body sustenance is a more direct path to self termination. The chances of the food being poisoned are high, but the chances of it being drugged are higher. It is not permitted to reveal sensitive or classified information to anyone but its handler.

-

“ _Hey, there_ ,” Sam Wilson says over the speakers three delivered and retrieved meals later, “ _You probably won’t believe me, but there’s nothing in the food_.”

Silence.

“ _No drugs, no poison. I can understand your being cautious, but your body needs food_.”

Its stomach makes a noise of complaint almost on cue, and it forces the thought of sustenance away from its mind.

“ _I haven’t asked_ ,” Sam Wilson says after a quiet minute, “ _But I’m pretty sure they’re going to have to feed you intravenously if you don’t eat something_.”

Emotion: Sympathy.

Why would Sam Wilson feel sympathy for it? Why would anyone?

A quiet, tinny sigh. The sound of it makes something stir in the back of its mind, but it’s a wisp, the impression of a wisp, gone before it can suss it out.

It’s quiet for a bit. It can just pick up the sound of steady breathing.

“ _I know_ ,” Sam Wilson says, voice fuller, lighter, “ _Do you like music?_ ”

Music?

 _Father used to play records_ , it thinks, what’s left of a heart in its chest warming slightly, but-

Something starts playing over the speakers and it stills, eyes gradually unfocusing. The wisp is back, a different one. It doesn’t know how it knows, but it-... _feels_ different-

“ _Hey, come dance with us tonight.” “Come on, Buck, you know I’ve got_ -”

“Two left feet,” it murmurs, before it squeezes its eyes shut and curls up tighter, teeth clenching on a bit back, pained sound.

There’s a frantic voice it can just hear through the pain for a few seconds, almost familiar, and then the voice cuts out and the music along with it.

The pain stays longest, but it’s used to pain.

____________

Tony flicks his fingers, eyes following the text as it scrolls up the screen. He glances over briefly, then flicks one of the read outs over.

Bruce sighs. “Ms. Potts is going to kill me.”

“Not likely,” Tony replies, flicking through the next screen of readings, “ _Me_ on the other hand…”

“I’m _enabling_ ,” Bruce emphasizes, hand gestures in his peripheral and all, “I’m as good _as_.”

“Look,” Tony changes the subject, “Again. When the music started.” He highlights a line from the readout and blows it up, shooting it over, “The readings Jarvis got spiked for the third time. Same as when he was talking to Romanoff and saw Barnes. It’s _memory._ ”

Another sigh.

“Tony-”

“You sigh too much for someone your age,” Tony interrupts, eyes back on his current screen.

Bruce rubs the top of the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “We’ve gone over the charts several times already in the past ten minutes-”

“Has it been that long?”

Bruce gives him a mild look. Tony can’t see it, but it _feels_ like one.

“Looking at them again won’t change anything, even if it _is_ memory,” Bruce finishes.

“It’s memory,” Tony says, sure, “It’s only useless unless…” he trails off, pulling up another screen, “Unless we can synthesize or recreate the patterns through a device that influences brainwaves.”

Silence.

“You want to tamper with his mind,” Bruce deducts, voice flat.

“It’s what we’re doing already,” Tony replies, looking over at him while dismissing the screens with a wave of his hand, “Just more roundabout and time consuming.”

“I think slower might be better in this case,” Bruce says, “He’s missing _limbs_ , Tony.”

“ _I_ lost something,” Tony counters, aware it’s petulant. Bruce shakes his head a little.

“This is different,” he replies, “Not to mention what little we’ve been able to glean from his mental state. If Natasha’s right, he’s nowhere _near_ stable, and tampering like that could just make it worse.”

Tony frowns in thought.

“This could help him remember,” Bruce acknowledges, “But then what? Are we even sure he _should_ remember?”

Tony’s expression tightens.

“He’s been through hell, Tony, quite literally. Maybe not remembering is a mercy,” Bruce finishes, softer.

Tony looks away.

“And besides,” Bruce adds, “Maybe he _wouldn’t_ want to remember.”

Tony lets his eyes settle on the far wall, thinking for a minute. “We should talk to Barnes,” he decides.

“And Ms. Romanoff,” Bruce adds. Tony nods.

Right. Two people from two very different points in Rogers’ life. Heck, from the sounds of it (and seeing it with his own eyes), the Steve Rogers that Barnes knew and the Steve Rogers that Romanoff knew are two completely different people. Tony might not like the guy for almost wiping him out and causing Pepper that grief, or grief in general (and yeah, he’s conceited, but he _knows_ him dying would’ve hurt her, and that’s the one thing he can’t forgive), but he also knows what Bruce is saying is true and what he can see with his own eyes: the guy _has_ been through hell. The guy might not even think of himself _as_ a guy, or even _human_ , for that matter.

So, Tony shoves all of those feelings aside for later, and gets to work on thinking of how to make a weapon turn back into a human.

____________

“How are you feeling?”

Bucky stares into the black abyss of his palms.

“Alright,” Sam concedes after a moment, “How about: what are you feeling right now?”

Quiet.

The sound of movement dulled in his ears. The muffled quality of it all is probably from the screaming void he’s staring into. Unless that’s just in his head. It’s probably in his head. It’s hard to tell anymore.

“He remembered,” Bucky eventually says, or near whispers. It’s all static and vague perceptions to him right now. “It hurt him.” Fabric shifting and settling. He never realized much it sounded like sofa cushions shifting until the serum kicked in for his hearing.

“It looked that way,” Sam sighs.

Bucky slides his hands up after- he doesn’t know how long, pressing and rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyelids. “Will it-...” he trails off, reroutes his question, “Have you seen anything like this before? Remembering causing _physical_ pain?”

Bucky can practically hear Sam thinking. If only it were enough to drown out the noise in his own head.

“Yes,” Sam eventually answers, “And no. Some of the soldiers I’ve worked with at the VA have had flashbacks, remembered and got stuck reliving pain they experienced physically in war, like a loop. This, though...this didn’t seem quite like that,” he finishes, sounding thoughtful.

It makes sense, because the only time Steve talked about having two left feet was when Bucky tried to get him to come out dancing on a double date, or just for fun. It was never in war or an alley, nowhere that would’ve caused him physical pain, no more than he was already in all the time, back then.

“I talked with Agent Romanoff,” Sam says after a few moments. Bucky keeps the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes, sees colors spark behind his eyelids and tries to focus on that instead of...everything else. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can will this world away one broken, fucked up fragment at a time. “She said her guess, and I’m thinking it’s an educated one, is that his memories were forcefully suppressed or removed over a long period of time, and that trying to get them back could put him at risk, and not just because of the good memories.”

Because from what little (and yet tremendously) they’ve been able to see so far, Steve is... _damaged_ , which Bucky hates to think and knows Sam enough to know he does, too, but he doesn’t know what other word to use for what Steve _is_ right now.

Bucky finally lets his hands drop to his lap since the world as he now knows it doesn’t seem to be going away any time soon.

“She also hinted that he’s probably already at risk,” Sam adds. Bucky glances up at him and Sam raises his own eyes to look back.

Bucky can tell he’s still trying for calm, and succeeding. The _strength_ that takes. It makes _him_ want to try harder, even though he feels wrung out. Way _past_ wrung out. And they still have a long ways to go.

“We may have started a domino effect,” Sam continues after a few moments, “He may even just start remembering on his own. No one knows how he lost his memory in the first place. At least, not concretely. I think Romanoff has some ideas, and I have some theories, but they’re just theories, nothing we can make any real solid guesses from.”

Bucky drops his eyes to the floor.

He’s just starting to think about asking Stark (God, he _is_ desperate) if he can buy a liquor store for him to try and get drunk on (for _science!_ ) when Jarvis pulls him out of his thoughts and slaps him with another round of misery.

“ _Pardon the interruption, but Captain Rogers seems to be talking in his sleep_.”

A screen materializes in front of them and despite a lot of parts of him not wanting to look, as soon as Bucky sees Steve, _hears_ him, God, there’s nowhere else he’d _rather_ look, impending pain be damned.

-

“Do we tell him he talks in his sleep?” Sam asks ten minutes later, looking over to Natasha.

“No,” she replies, leaned forward on her chin in her hand, elbow on her thigh and eyes on the screen, “We don’t want to give him another reason to try harder to kill himself. Make a list of what Jarvis records and we’ll determine what keywords to mention and what words, sentences, and subjects to avoid in future discussions.”

Quiet. Just the soft sounds of Steve mumbling. _God_ , Bucky could almost be back in 1939.

“Steve used to talk in his sleep,” he mumbles, ignoring the eyes that slant his way. He keeps his own on Steve on the screen, trying to keep his hope managed and his despair at bay.

 _Please don’t let whoever did this have poisoned that part of him, too_.

____________

It wakes with a sucked in breath, quick to silence it but not quick enough-

Nothing comes. Not a reprimand, pain, a taunt, its mouth forced open and fingers pressing down on its tongue. Nothing. Maybe it’s a trick-

No.

It’s being held by the targets in their Tower. From observation, they will not utilize the same methods as its masters against its weaknesses.

But what will they use?

They have immobilized it, talked to it, asked it questions and tried to feed it, gave it a bucket and aide to relieve itself of what little there was to eliminate ( _not much, as it hasn’t had intake_ ). It does not know these tactics, not what picture they make when put together or the individual pieces. Perhaps they will kill it with kindness? Father spoke of it, once.

_“You see this?”_

_It looks from Father to the cage. Father opens it as he gestures with his free hand and it raises one-_

_Stops. Raises the right when Father gives a slight shake of his head._

_“Cup your palm.”_

_It does._

_“Make a cage.”_

_It forms claws with its fingers._

_Father turns and lowers his own hand into it, exchanging the bird from one to the other; its new home ( **prison** ). It closes its fingers quick to keep the bird from flying away, glancing over to Father to make sure that’s right._

_Father’s eyes are on the bird, so it looks back._

_Its feathers are bright yellow against its metal gray. It wishes it could feel the tiny pinpricks of the claws from its hopping. All it knows is the slightest bit of pressure, like a fat feather. Like a ghost. But the music it has heard from the bird through the walls has been brighter than a haunted melody, as bright as its feathers._

_“Crush it.”_

_It does. The brief, high shrill it makes barely echoes off of the walls, cut off at the source._

_“That was you, once,” Father says._

_**What am I now?** It thinks._

_It doesn’t ask._

_“Go clean up.”_

_It opens its finger-made cage._

_There is crushed feathers and bone and blood lodged between the metal plates of its palm, bright red now, instead of yellow._

_Is **it** crushed bone and blood stained, too?_

“ _Hey, there_ ,” Sam Wilson says, and its eyes refocus.

____________

He scrubs a towel over his hair, rough enough to feel it, lets it perch there after with a sigh while he heads over to the sink. He grabs the glass he left on the back of it and turns the faucet on, filling it up.

Bucky pulls the towel off and downs the whole glass, lukewarm this time instead of cold so he doesn’t have to think about the damn _Ice Water Mistake_ of three months ago. He doesn’t want to end up on the floor here, curled in on himself and shaking for two hours (and this time with an _observer_ who could quickly change that to observer _s_ ).

“ _Captain Barnes_.”

Speak of the devil.

“ _Mr. Wilson has asked me to inform you that he’s starting the session in fifteen minutes, and would like to request your help on a matter beforehand_.”

“Tell him I’ll be right over,” Bucky replies.

“ _As you wish, Captain_ ,” Jarvis returns.

Bucky grits his teeth a little at that.

Much as he tries to insist, Stark’s apparently overridden his name change request.

He catches his reflection on the way out and stops, eyes moving over his hair.

It’s getting longer. Maybe he should keep it short?

Will that help Steve at all?

Bucky didn’t care about it much before, was cutting it out of habit, something familiar in a mostly unfamiliar place, but…

He tosses the towel into the bathroom and flicks the light off. It’s satisfying to dirty up the bathroom a little, make it less _pristine_. Makes it more real in a way that doesn’t completely break his heart.

-

“Hey,” Sam greets.

Bucky gives a twitch of his lips. “Hey, Sam.”

“Agent Romanoff and I have made up a list from Jarvis’ recording,” Sam continues, holding up a notepad, “Can you take a look?”

Bucky almost pauses, but makes himself say, “Yeah,” reaching for it instead, and tries to keep the hope and the dread off his face. He _wants_ to know what Steve said, even while he doesn’t, and he makes himself look as soon as it’s in his hand-

 

_Ice cream_

_something Island?_

_Munchen Hauptbahnhof_

 

 _It’s short_ , he thinks dumbly, staring down at it, not sure how to feel about it.

“Steve and I used to get ice cream at old McFeely’s, split it because we could usually only afford one,” Bucky answers, “The second is most likely _Coney_ Island. I took him there when we were still in school.” Because Steve had been sick for the two months straight before his birthday and Bucky scared shitless for the latter half of it. He’d wanted to take Steve somewhere nice after he started getting better again, give him something _good_ after...all that hell. The whole day _was_ good, and the night. Steve’s face lit up more than Bucky’d seen it in _months_ , even when he _was_ expecting the fireworks, throwing a grin over at him, and Bucky-

And Bucky’s the only one that remembers it, now. Steve apparently didn’t even remember the whole name of the _island_. Steve was asleep, though. Maybe he-

Even if he _did_ remember, he might not when he wakes up. If he isn’t up already.

Sam gently tries to take the notebook from him and Bucky blinks out of his thoughts, realizes his fingers are denting the paper and lets go. Sam looks thoughtful, though, when Bucky glances up, either doesn’t notice the paper crinkles or is graciously ignoring it, and Bucky’s grateful. He can almost see the gears turning in Sam’s head, too: how to bring up or approach Steve with the information, work it into their mostly one-sided conversations.

A desperate emotion wells up and presses against his sternum the longer the quiet goes on and Bucky blurts, just as Sam opens his mouth- “Maybe I could try to talk to him?” Nat won’t allow it, he knows immediately, not after he interrupted the last time and it seemed to just make things _worse_ (another kick to the gut while he’s struggling to stand and hold his insides in. He’s beginning to feel a lot like _Barton_ , lately). But he can’t stop trying, not now. And he _will_ keep trying, as long as it takes.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Sam replies, looking up, empathy in his eyes.

Bucky was expecting it, but it still makes his stomach drop out, feel like his blood is spilling all over the floor regardless of his efforts. That’s been happening a lot lately though, and if he’s being honest, it’s been happening for a lot of his life, even before the... _present_. He’s getting used to it all over again.

“I’m not saying never,” Sam reassures, “But I’m still trying to form a relationship and connection with him, and last time, with the music you suggested…” he trails off.

Bucky’s fingers curl into fists.

“It was a good idea,” Sam says, softer, “But maybe just a little too soon.”

Bucky drops his eyes and nods, swallows, forces himself to say, “Yeah.” He sees Sam move in his periphery and feels an empathetic hand grip his shoulder. Not sympathy, not that. Sam manages to ride the line and stay just this side of it, and that’s a big part of why Bucky was drawn to him in the first place, why he wanted Sam to try and look at and hopefully work with Steve. They don’t need sympathy, they need _empathy_. They need _help_ , not a pitying gaze and well wishes. Those won’t get them anywhere.

“Not forever,” Sam reaffirms, gentle but firm while giving his shoulder a squeeze, “Just not yet.”

Bucky forces himself to nod.

He was away from Steve for seventy years, what’s another little while, right?

 _Right_.

____________

_“What do you remember?”_

_“Remember?”_

_The red woman rises from her crouch._

_“What’s the matter?”_

_“Sir. It’s having issues with its-”_

_Its head twitches to the side._

_“There- Sir, it’s malfunctioning-”_

_**Static**._

_“Wipe it. Start again from the beginning.”_

_**Static**._

_“-not supposed to remember this. Why is it-”_

_**Static**._

_“Hold my hand so you don’t fall! Come on, don’t be like that, just take it!”_

_**STATIC.** _

It opens its eyes, breaths shallow and quick, rabbit heart beating in its ribcage. It stares at the wall, stares, _stares_ , not sure if it should try and grasp the fragments or push them away. They dissipate on their own before it can decide, but it feels…

It curls up tighter.

It is malfunctioning. It is not meant to feel.

“ _Not supposed to remember_ …” it whispers before it can stop the words, closing its eyes and curling up tight, regardless of the protest of its body, its bladder. The pain of it is welcome-

 _Not supposed to feel_.

-

The door opens and footsteps approach; sedate, calm. Someone stops behind it- The red woman. It recognizes her smell: gun oil and gunpowder, sunlight reflecting off of sn-

It ceases the thought line, holding still.

“Mr. Wilson thinks I should try unbinding you,” she tells it.

_Sam Wilson? Why?_

It feels her eyes on the back of its head.

If it is freed, it will complete protocol directives and self termina-

“But I know better.”

The _snap_ of the reinforced cuffs coming off halts its train of thought, and it can move freely for the first time in thirty-seven hours, forty-two minutes, and thirty seconds.

It holds still and stares straight ahead. After a few moments, it slowly turns its head to look back and up at her.

She stares back, something in her eyes-

She stands, slow, but it is… _something_ it can’t name that she is not moving as cautiously as she has the other times.

She turns and heads for the door and it watches her go, lips tugging down slightly after the door closes. A screen appears a minute later with a man’s face on it and it wipes its expression back to blank.

“ _Hey, there_ ,” Sam Wilson’s voice says.

It blinks, slow.

“ _Thought we’d try something different_.”

It stares.

“ _It’s conditional, though_ ,” Sam Willson adds, expression shifting. His voice sounds like...sympathy? Is that what sympathy looks like on a face? “ _If you try to end your life, they’ll put the cuffs back on_.”

It pushes itself up for the first time in thirty-seven hours, forty-five minutes, and thirty-seven seconds, quickly shifting its balance to make up for the new weight distribution and lack of its two heaviest limbs, as well as joint stiffness. It scoots back using its remaining arm and leg until its back bumps against the wall, taking stock of itself and its options.

Protocol says self-termination.

Self-termination cannot be completed.

Higher amount of options are available if it is unbound, higher still if uninhibited.

“ _But I know better_.”

It doesn’t notice its fingers curling.

Something about the way the red woman looked at it lingers in its mind, an... _emotion_ in its chest, like ice water forced up out of its lungs.

It is not meant to feel.

But.

“ _But I know better.”_

_Sunlight on sn-_

It does not notice the ticking of its finger until it stops.

 _It knew her,_ it realizes _, She knew it. She **knows** it._

Everything must be recalculated. She knows it, but it does not know her. Probability of success for completing protocol directives has decreased significantly. How does it plan for being known by an unknown? It cannot. It could talk to her, test-

No. Somehow it knows that will fail. She will not be so easily sussed out, nor will their connection. It could talk to the other targets, but the probability of useful answers is minimal, from observation, and she may intercept the information gathering.

 _She knows it_.

All courses of its actions may be intercepted and, or, planned for. There is no course or plan but to wait.

Sam Wilson has said something, something _s_ , but it wasn’t listening. It wasn’t-

_Its head whips to the side with a sting against its cheek._

_“Repeat auditory and visual testing until it can repeat back word for word even while focused on another task_ -”

Its fingers give a twitch.

Sam Wilson is watching it. His eyes are different from the Hydra agents, when it looks, its handlers, observing and calculating but without a harmful intent. At least, it thinks- They are more like Father’s, but different, still.

“ _Wanna try eating today?_ ” Sam Wilson eventually asks, voice lilting up on the end of the question, like that bird it crushed. Not malice or deceit, and not trickery. Something...warm?

The screen disappears for a time and when the door opens fifteen minutes later, Sam Wilson is standing in the doorway, holding a tray. Sam Wilson approaches slow, cautious, doesn’t sit. He takes a bite or swallow of each item before setting the tray down and pushing it towards it, a loud _shhhhh-k_ scrape across the floor. Only then does it risk eating. It cannot self-terminate yet, anyway.

Sam Wilson leaves the room, lips curled up slightly. Emotion: Pleased.

It looks back down at its food while it eats, picking pieces of bread apart one handed and slowly eating them half an inch at a time, not tasting it. It stops halfway through the roll, stomach churning in complaint, unused to solid food weighing in it, but it forces the food to stay down.

____________

“How’re the sessions going?”

She keeps walking, steps quiet. “Like you’re not monitoring them.”

Tony scoffs.

“Still want to put a bullet in his skull?” she asks, slowing to a stop.

It’s quiet.

“I know who he is now,” he answers eventually, quieter, “And I know...anyway,” he changes course, voice strengthening again, “I called you down here because it’s about the metal arm and leg. You might know more about them than anyone else at the moment.”

So he’s focusing on something he _can_ do, for the time being, instead of trying to put a bullet in a brainwashed Captain America.

Natasha quirks a brow just before he turns to look at her, perfectly timed.

“I might,” she answers, lips quirking up, and Stark rolls his eyes.

“Save the crypticism for when I _don’t_ have a hole in _my_ skull, please.”

“If you insist,” she replies, still smiling. He doesn’t sigh. Instead, his own lips quirk, just a smidge.

“Here,” he says, pulling up a screen and forming ‘L’ shapes with his fingers, pulling them apart. The screen expands in size. “Take a look.”

She steps closer, eyes moving over the schematics. “Four small, hidden containers. Two in each limb,” she concludes, “When did Jarvis take these scans?”

“While not-so-mystery-anymore Soldier and I both were still conked out,” Tony replies, “I’ve been trying to remove the devices _inside_ the containers but they’re on a hair trigger. I can’t…” he trails off, gesturing at his own head, “While I’m on pain meds. It screws up my concentration and accuracy. The sooner I get them out, though, the sooner we can _maybe_ give them back.” He glances to her at that and she looks back to the screen.

“He’s dangerous even without them,” she answers, “More so _with_ them. At least for now, he can’t move around freely or attack as efficiently. His chances of escaping or harming himself are slimmer, too.”

She hears Stark sigh.

“Someone _really_ didn’t want him spilling information,” he says, “Or holding him long enough to figure out who he was. Must be why he was wearing the mask and goggles,” he says the last to himself, quieter. “It’s risky,” he adds, louder again, “Using _Captain America_ of all people. Who would do something that flamboyant?” he wonders aloud, crossing his arms.

He stills after a minute, and she turns her head to watch him fully.

“You don’t think…” he trails off, turning his head to look at her after a moment, “Hydra? You found that cyanide pill-...”

She watches him for another moment, watching her, his eyes getting increasingly calculating. She looks back up at the screen, the machinery, design. They’re both beautiful, and ugly, efficient but go against about ten different laws of humanity. She might dare to even liken them to a nuclear bomb, but on a smaller scale.

“I’ll look for what information I can,” she says after a silent minute, “But I don’t think we’ll find much until whoever it is wants to let us know. I’ve tried before.” She sees him turn a little more to her in her periphery at that and after a moment, she turns away, heading for the elevator.

“Oh. Jarvis?” she hears, and pauses at the elevator, doors sliding open.

“ _Mr. Barton’s condition is slowly but surely improving_ ,” Jarvis reports.

She looks back at Tony over her shoulder and gives a small nod, then turns back forward and steps into the elevator, only letting out a quiet but relieved breath once the doors are fully closed. She stares down at the floor for a long moment before dragging her eyes up to watch the floor numbers countdown to their destination.

Maybe she should tell Barnes about the cyanide pill before he realizes it on his own. She’s a little surprised he hasn’t yet, but shock does that to people. She’d counted on it, at the time.

The elevator slows to a stop and the doors open, and she steps out.

____________

Sam watches the Winter Soldier ( _Captain Rogers_ , he can think in the privacy of his own head. The man in front of him doesn’t think of himself as Captain Rogers and calling him that now doesn’t seem like a great idea, but it is _Captain Rogers_ ), who doesn’t watch him, has barely glanced up at him since Sam walked into the room. He’s not sure if that’s progress or some underlying... _something_ , something in an order Sam doesn’t know from people who remain a mystery. He has a feeling it’s the latter.

Ms. Romanoff supposedly told him everything she could about the Soldier, but he has a feeling that’s not entirely the case, either.

Sam’s been trying to keep his body language on guard, too, and himself out of reach, for now. Given who his patient is, it seems like the most cautious option if he’s going to be in the same room with him at all (that and Ms. Romanoff’s warning is still echoing in his head).

_“Stay ten feet away from him at all times. Don’t turn your back, don’t enter the room with anything he could potentially use as a weapon, and **don’t** underestimate him. Just because he’s missing two limbs doesn’t mean he can’t or won’t try to kill you or himself. He has a mission, that’s all that matters to him.”_

_Sam’s lips tug down a little but he nods._

_“Too much sympathy or kindness will get you killed,” she continues, eyes intent on his, “He doesn’t think of himself as a person. He’ll take any opportunity he can to complete his mission. Don’t make yourself physically lower than him, he’ll either see you as weak and to be exploited or as a threat. The Soldier’s eaten, at least,” she adds after a pause, expression and voice...lessening out of the firm regiment she was giving him, “That’s progress.”_

As far as rules go, some he’s familiar with and all of them make his stomach turn. This man used to be _Captain America_ , the greatest war hero and the first _super_ hero of all time. What did...whoever did this to him, _do_ to him? It’s terrifying to think it’s possible in this world to make someone, especially the man who used to be Captain America, like this at all.

 _Now, what to try and accomplish with this session_ , Sam ponders, worrying his lower lip. All he really knows out of any of this is that slow and steady is the only way to _try_ and win this race, or at least make it out to the other side of the finish line.

He needs more information. First thing he’s doing when this session is over is requesting all information and footage. He should have at the start instead of just a verbal recount, he needs facts, but he’d wanted to get a feel for the Soldier as he was currently, uncolored by an already formed opinion.

Sam focuses back on him, who still barely looks at him. He’d responded to the questions about colors, before, so maybe a slow, gradual build up of questions along those lines would work until Sam can get to the _real_ questions.

Until then, slow and steady.

-

Maybe Bucky should stop torturing himself. He probably shouldn’t even be doing this at all. It’s not like there isn’t Jarvis and Nat to keep watch and help, which is about the only excuse he has going for him for _him_ watching out for Steve, because he still doesn’t know what Nat is doing and Jarvis is a voice in the ceiling.

He keeps his eyes on the screen.

Sam actually got Steve to _eat_ something. It wasn’t much, nor near as much as Steve used to eat, but considering Steve hasn’t eaten a thing since they brought him to the Tower, it’s a fuckin’ _miracle_. Steve _has_ to be starving. There’s no way he isn’t with their metabolisms.

Bucky didn’t exactly get it before, during the war. Logically he’d understood, Steve’s body had four times the metabolism so he’d needed four times the food to keep up with it, which wasn’t even him being _active_ and on mission; that was just him at resting rate. Seeing it in practice had been a whole other something, had made it easier to understand ( _and it’s easier still to understand it now, with his body needing the same_ ).

He sighs quietly, dropping his head into his hands. His stomach gives a low growl and he makes a face at it, pushing himself to sit back up.

He doesn’t want to eat, not when Steve isn’t, but he’ll be useless if he doesn’t, and that’s even worse. He can’t be useless to Steve, even when all he can do right now is go find some food.

-

Sam decides to spend most of the session quiet. There are times for talking, but silence can be just as important as words. They’ve only talked through a screen, so today he decides to work on silence, feeling out each other’s presence and getting used to one another. It’s a slow process, like everything, but he can tell it’s in progress, even if minutely. He might not be as trained as Ms. Romanoff or as watchful as Hawkeye, but he knows body language, can read body language, works and depends on it near every day, so he can see the Soldier...not relax, but very, very subtly adjust.

Afterwards, he requests the files and video from Jarvis as decided and holes himself up in- _on_ his floor (his own _floor_ ), and gets to work.

After a short while, his eyes catch on one of the feeds he’s going over, brow wrinkling while a memory niggles at the back of his-

He stills, eyes widening.

He should ask Ms. Romanoff first because it’s her in the feed, but-

But Barnes was there originally, if it’s what Sam thinks it is, and talking to Barnes would keep him in the loop (which he needs), give him something he can do in relation to the Soldier (which he also needs), and if it _is_ what Sam thinks it might be, Barnes will _need_ to know.

Sam pushes himself up off the couch and asks Jarvis to call him.

-

“Things have been quiet of late,” Thor says, “It feels as temporary as the stillness before a storm, but you have no need of me at this time.”

Her lips quirk.

“You want to see Jane,” she deduces.

Thor’s own lips quirk.

“I do.” He glances out the windows briefly. “I cannot do much here as things are and I would not propose my leaving if Jane were not close,” he continues, looking back to her, “If you think I should stay, I will, but if not- If you should have need of me, you have but to call.”

Natasha watches him for a minute and nods, lips quirking up a bit more.

“Have a safe flight.”

Thor smiles, pausing for a moment after he starts turning to go.

“You are leading this team well,” he says, all humor gone and almost out of nowhere, but she knows better. He’s far more observant than the public gives him credit for.

He finishes turning for the balcony this time and she watches him go, take off with a swing of his hammer and disappear up into the clouds. She only spares a moment to consider his words, to let herself feel the doubt and vulnerability before clearing it away, setting it aside.

Stark is no longer bound to a bed, but Barnes is out of sorts and cannot keep him in check. She’s no longer _solely_ leading, but in some ways, it still feels like it.

“ _Agent Romanoff_ ,” Jarvis starts, “ _Captain Barnes is on his way up to your floor and appears quite agitated._ ”

“Thank you,” she replies, just before the elevator doors open and Barnes strides out, his expression as thunderous as Thor’s clouds were.

‘Agitated’ is one way of putting it.

“Cyanide capsule,” is all he says, coming to a stop in front of her. She glances down briefly to confirm his hands have curled into fists. “You didn’t tell me,” he doesn’t quite grit.

“No,” she agrees. It wasn’t the time.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. told me Hydra was gone,” he does grit that time, “Forever. Steve and the Commandos and I, we beat them. He didn’t-” he chokes in a breath, silent for a moment before he finishes, strained, “It wasn’t for nothing.”

He can say the Soldier’s name now, she observes.

“It wasn’t for nothing,” Bucky repeats firmly, “Hydra’s gone. It can’t be them. So who-”

“They should be,” she agrees, “But so should him and you.”

He flinches, just barely, but it’s enough for her.

“So I won’t rule them out,” she finishes.

“It _has_ to be someone else,” he counters, fingers curling tighter.

“We’re still trying to find out.” If Stark can trace any of the Soldier’s limbs or equipment to a source. She’s not holding her breath.

He stares at her for a long time, eyes eventually dropping to the floor.

All they can do is wait and try to keep breathing-

“ _Agent Romanoff, Captain Barnes, pardon the interruption but there has been an explosion downtown and a robbery is in progress at the Federal Savings Bank by the Wrecking Crew._ ”

Bucky’s head jerks up, eyes to the ceiling before he turns and quickly follows Natasha as she strides to the elevator.

“Call Thor, have him return to the Tower,” she orders. She’s not taking any chances, and a quick glance at Barnes shows he appreciates it. And wants to stay behind instead of handle the situation, but that won’t work. “Barnes and I will head out,” she continues, still looking at him. His expression tightens but he nods slightly, shifting his eyes straight ahead.

“ _Mr. Stark said that he will meet you there_ ,” Jarvis replies, sounding just a bit displeased with the information. Stark’s not fully healed, but it’ll have to do. Unless-

She slowly crosses her arms, thinking.

“What is it?” Bucky asks, taking notice and glancing back over.

She steps out when the doors open and hears him follow.

“Maybe we should let whoever sent the Soldier think Stark is dead,” she thinks aloud.

Barnes makes a considering sound.

“Could work in our favor,” she adds.

“If we can get Stark to-” he starts.

Bucky cuts off and they both stop to watch Stark streak off into the distance, thrusters silent through the soundproof glass.

“So much for that idea,” Bucky mumbles.

____________

_It’s...drifting?_

_No._

_Floating?_

_No._

_Maybe?_

_It’s bright up above, gold and yellow. There’s someone laughing, both nearby and faraway, high and warm, foreign and familiar. It can hear it through the water in its ears, cold-_

_Pain lances up its side, throughout its body with the sound of a buzzsaw_ -

It wakes to a sharp sound, throat vibrating-

It’s eyes snap open and it all stops, breathing ragged. It slowly lowers its arm from where it’s poised over its head and slowly pushes itself back up to sitting from where it has slumped down to the floor.

 _Dreaming_ , some faraway part of its mind says, _You were dreaming_.

“ _It was just a dream, Stevie-”_

It winces.

_Who is Stevie?_

It sits back against the wall and stares across at the opposite one.

“ _Who’s Stevie? You are, silly_ ,” an even farther away piece of its mind says, like the echo of an echo. The voice sounds familiar, almost like its own, but-

It winces.

Its protocols are coming undone. It is aware of this, both abstractly and acutely, like time passing whenever it is brought back to the world again, pulled out of the ice to follow orders, serve, but there’s nothing it can do. Order is becoming chaos, simplicity is becoming complexity, mission...What was clear is getting murkier by the day. Part of it is panicking, it realizes, but the rest feels something like resignation. It is what it is. Maybe this would always have happened, regardless of methods taken to prevent it.

The door slides open and its eyes shift to it.

“Not for nothing,” Sam Wilson says after a moment, stepping fully inside. The door slides shut. “But would you like to try and take a bath?”

It lets its mind shift focus.

Its handlers were mercurial about its physical state. Sometimes it was washed regularly, sometimes not at all. It can’t recall all the times, but it can recall enough of...enough.

It doesn’t reply. It hasn’t been punished for not doing so, yet, so it keeps silent.

Sam Wilson smiles.

“Just a thought,” Sam Wilson shrugs.

It shifts its eyes back to the opposite wall, then back again briefly when Sam Wilson moves to settle against that point on the wall, near the door.

It goes back to staring at the wall, thinking, not thinking, trying to… _trying_ …

After a short while, the question it’s had since waking presses and presses until it finally comes out, regardless of its restraint (and maybe part of it _let_ it):

“Who is Stevie?”

Sam Wilson looks up.

It looks over.

“Do you want to know?” Sam Wilson asks.

That gives it pause.

It looks away.

It’s ready to drop the subject - the silence almost oppressive - already has dropped the subject when Sam Wilson says-

“Jarvis?” he asks, voice...careful, “Do you have any footage of Steve Rogers?”

It holds in a wince, mind kicking up...something, more than a wisp this time but not something solid enough to knock down foundations.

 _Steve Rogers_.

“ _I do_ ,” a voice replies, and it gives a slight jerk, eyes flashing to the ceiling. A screen materializes and a video starts playing, and it slowly drags its eyes down to it after a quick sweep of the room.

Voice: Digitized, surrounding. Likely: J.A.R.V.I.S., Tony Stark’s Artificial Intelligence.

Also likely: It is being observed at _all_ times.

It stores the information away for later use.

It focuses on the video, attention focusing further at the faces that soon appear on the screen.

It watches from start to finish almost without blinking, sees the other weapon- _man_ , with the blue eyes in it as well ( _but they’re gray in this, all of the color leeched away in old film, and it almost_ )-

For a reason it cannot name, while it feels... _surprised_ to see its own face in the film, it also doesn’t. Everything has felt tinged with a numb inevitability since- since the man. If _it_ was not what it is now, it would be something else, wouldn’t it? And if the target’s video is to be believed, it _has_ been other things...hasn’t it? Father had said more than once to be prepared for war. War is conflict and inevitability, the thing upon which worlds are burnt and new ones are built.

Is that happening to it?

The video plays behind its eyes even after the screen dissipates, pain thrumming dully along with images of laughter and smiles on a face it no longer knows and a mission it does not remember on loop in the reel in its head. It doesn’t-

It grits its teeth, the pain swelling and pulsating behind its eyes while its face flashes across them, too, over and over and over.

_Its face looks over, smiles. Throws its head back, laughs._

It...

It cannot care. _It cannot_ -

It doesn’t.

 _It doesn’t_ -

It realizes its hand is gripping the side of its head and tries to put it back down, but can’t, the pain is growing and growing and _growing_ and the electricity will come and _it can’t it can’t Bucky will come and it **can’t**_ -

It lets out a hoarse sound and pulls its knee up sharply, pressing its forehead roughly to it.

There’s a voice, somewhere, two of them, one flat and digitized and the other one all over the place, but it can’t focus on anything but the _faces_ and the _name_ and the _pain_ and the _**video**_ and the-

_Steve Rogers Steve Rogers Steve Rogers Bucky Barne-_

The wall against its back and the floor beneath it vibrate and it sucks in a sharp breath, using it, focusing on the fading sensation, _forcing itself to focus on the sensation_ -

“Explosion. 15 stories above,” it guesses-

_They’ll punish it punish it punish it guessing is forbidden you are expected to **know,** **asset** -_

The two voices cease and then the flat one confirms:

“ _Avengers Tower is under attack by an unknown team of assailants_.”

It pulls in ragged breaths, pain receding the more it focuses, and then the lights flicker and go out, emergency red taking their place.

It is almost a relief.

____________

“You guys got it?” Tony calls out into the comms.

“ _Just give me- **Got’em**_ ,” Barnes grits back.

They finally get them pinned _down_ and Tony jerks his hands up, repulsors aimed-

“Wait, _wait!_ ” Wrecker lets out, throwing his hands up, crowbar trapped a ways away under Romanoff’s boot, “We was just doin’ what we was _paid_ to _do!_ ”

“What?” Tony asks dumbly, his understanding of the situation briefly going askew, “ _Paid_ to do?” They’re doing what they _always_ do, rob bank-

Shit.

 _Wait_.

“We were-” Wrecker starts.

“Paid,” Tony processes, re-aiming his hands down and taking off up into the air. “Back to the Tower!” he orders, Romanoff and Barnes quick to follow on their bikes, leaving the Crew to the police slowly coming in from the side streets while the civilians film and stare, “They’re after him!”

____________

“ _I have sealed and secured all floor levels and Thor has just arrived. He is now facing the intruders_ ,” J.A.R.V.I.S. reports.

“The others?” Sam Wilson asks, eyes on the ceiling.

“ _They have been alerted and are on their way_.”

Sam Wilson’s body relaxes minutely but stays guarded.

It looks up.

Are they coming for it?

Its fingers curl and it looks down at them in...confusion?

Does it...not _want_ to-

Another minute vibration.

“You’re a popular guy,” Sam Wilson says, drawing its eyes back up. Sam Wilson is smiling.

A...joke?

The floor reverberates, stronger this time, closer.

“ _A second team has breached the elevator shaft_ ,” J.A.R.V.I.S. reports.

Sam Wilson’s smile disappears as he looks back up.

“ _Doctor Banner is confronting the majority of the agents with Thor, but a small splinter group is heading down the elevator shaft._ ”

“Damn it,” Sam Wilson says, low, reaching for the back of his pants in an aborted movement. “Do you have any weapons down here?”

“ _In the wall outside the cell,_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S. answers, “ _But the elevator doors are now opening_.”

 _They are here_ , a part of it whispers, stomach tightening in something other than hunger, a familiar numbness filling it, deadness. Does that make it-

It hears the sound of extra locks sliding and clicking into place through the door and then a loud _BANG_ from beyond it, drawing both their eyes.

“They have come,” it stays quietly.

“ _Hopefully not before we get there_ ,” Tony Stark’s voice says from all over. “ _Hey, there, evil home invading villains!_ ” he adds, louder, “ _Mind introducing yourselves?_ ”

It picks up the sound of a brief spurt of electricity (its body jolts slightly) and then the door slides open.

Three men pour in, one quickly diverting to Sam Wilson when he lunges from around the doorframe and the other two coming straight for it, guns trained.

“ _I once saw you on an obsidian night_ ,” one of them quickly barks out in Russian, muffled slightly from behind a fabric mask. Its body gives a sharp, quick _jerk_ and then slumps back, eyes rolling back then closed while its head drops forward, chin to its chest.

It hears footsteps, feels the echoes of tremors through the wall and floor, hears Sam Wilson grunt and the connect of fists connecting with solid flesh. It feels gloved fingers slide under its armpits and begin to drag its body across the floor.

It can’t move, can’t lift its head or its eyelids to a see a thing, not the room or the agents or Sam Wilson. They’re impossibly heavy, like the wall of Berlin itself, erected high and strong, enough to keep the world away and everything it covets inside. It hears Stark’s strained rambling and-

Something _whooshes_ through the air and ricochets off of the agent’s bodies. Its own is dropped to the sound of gunfire hitting metal, shortly stopped with the sound of a contained shout and the muffled sound of shattering bone.

“Steve!”

_Steve?_

_Steve_.

_Steve Rogers?_

The voice in its head said it was Stevie, is that it?

“ _Steve_ ,” the voice outside its head repeats, familiar and urgent and...warm? Can a voice sound like that? Warm and... _scared_ at the same time?

Hands grip and lift it again but with...care, an almost familiar smell hitting its nose. It’s pulled close and the body against it is as warm as the voice.

“Steve?” the voice repeats, trembling just a little.

The sound of it makes it tense, as much as it can. It...doesn’t like-

It uses the uncomfortable swell of emotion in its chest and gathers what strength it can to force out a harsher breath.

The arms holding it tense further.

“ _Steve?_ ”

It doesn’t... _like_ the tremor, can hear it and doesn’t…

 _It doesn’t understand why_.

“Nat!” the familiar voice calls, “ _Natasha!_ ”

_Natasha._

_Red on snow_.

Running steps, light and quick, barely-there, well trained. She was-

“Natasha,” the familiar voice says, urgent and low, “His breathing changed when I said his name. He might be awake but he’s not moving. I don’t know what-”

 _His name_ , it repeats, external words diffusing when its focus shifts.

Its name?

Fingertips touch and lift one of its eyelids, mentally dragging it back.

It sees the red woman.

She lets go and its eyelid falls closed again, putting it back in the dark.

“His pupil contracted,” the red woman says ( _Natasha. Nata-_ ), “Wilson,” she redirects, “What happened?”

“Not sure,” Sam Wilson says, “One of them said a phrase and he just dropped.”

The sound of someone shifting, moving away. The red woman. It hears whispering, but too low and far for it to understand.

Footsteps.

“Trigger phrase,” the red woman says, voice getting closer. The sound of more shifting. Fingertips touch its face, rough and slim. “He might wake up on his own in a few hours, if he’s asleep. If he’s not, same thing.”

“So we just...wait?” the familiar voice asks.

“That’s all we can do for now,” the red woman replies, voice catching low in its chest, hooking under its lowest rib by its spine. Her voice sounds familiar, too-

She knows it. It knows her.

 _It knows her_.

Shifting. Footsteps. They stop.

“You shouldn’t be in here when he does,” the red woman says.

The hands on him tighten.

“Natasha, _please_ ,” the familiar voice begs.

It can recognize the sound of begging. It’s never felt any...thing...for begg-

No, that’s not right, is it? It doesn’t feel...right.

It has heard begging before, many of its targets did it, but before...before those, _before_ -

It shifts minutely, would wince if it could with the resurgence of pain behind its eyes.

“He moved,” the familiar voice says quickly.

“We’ll keep an eye on him from outside,” the red woman replies, something authoritative in her voice.

“But-” “He could hear you right now.” A warning laced through softness.

 _Familiar_ -

The hands tighten, distract it from the pain, and it is several long minutes before they slowly loosen. The red woman’s footsteps retreat and then stop somewhere just a bit further, heavier ones following. It’s slowly... _gently_ set down. Fingertips brush across its forehead and it feels its bangs slide off its face.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” the familiar voice says, low again, but quiet this time, and filled with...an emotion it doesn’t know. It pulls-...somewhere inside. “I’m waiting for you,” they continue, “I’ll keep waiting, St- Steve. I’ll wait as long as it takes. It’s the least I can do, right?” the voice asks, sounding like it wants an answer.

It cannot answer. It does not know what it would say if it could.

_Steve?_

The sound of fabric shifting and rustling close, then heavy steps slowly fading away. There’s a long silence before it hears the sound of the door sliding shut, taking away the feeling of an impossibly heavily weighted gaze with it.

____________

It regains the use of its body all at once three hours later, sucks in a breath then opens its eyes, staring up.

The lights are white again.

It looks around once, but there’s no one. No one has come or gone since they left.

It looks back up at the ceiling.

 _They_ came.

It turns its head, staring at the wall.

It could have returned to base if they had succeeded. It would have been punished, but it would have been returned. It could have aided their mission if they had not shut it down-

...Would it have aided them? Some small part of it feels...

It slowly rolls onto its side.

Everything it knows is a lie. It is irrelevant, it is _made_ of lies and broken promises and broken bodies, but-

It curls up tighter.

Everything-

But what did it know before, really?

“ _That was you, once_.”

Father found it, stole it, _made_ it from the broken, crushed pieces of a man it apparently used to be, pieces that laughed and smiled, pieces that hurt like knives and razor wire and jagged glass where they no longer fit together the more it... _feels_. And it _does_ feel, even if it does not... _want_ to, feels like broken and tattered pieces slowly being shoved back together to make some...whole. It is incomplete, it is slowly realizing, with some pieces too far apart and some gone altogether. It is slowly becoming aware of them the more they try to slot into place and the longer it is away from the measures taken to ensure its functionality, many pieces just on the outside of its conscious edges. It is a machine and a tool and a weapon and a... _human_ , now, isn’t it? Is that what it is slowly becoming?

But what is a human?

“ _Don’t be like that. Come on! Come dance with us!-_ ”

A human is laughter and smiles and fingers curling around it tight, a racing heartbeat and kind words and a touch that hurts in ways that aren’t physical. A human is _warmth_ and it has been cold for so long now. Can it become warm, too? Will it survive becoming warm?

Does it...want to?

It curls up into as tight a ball as it can.

It does not know. There is a lot it does not know. It is not sure it wants to.

Humans are soft, breakable things. If it was ever soft, it does not feel like it is anymore.

____________

“Do we know who they were?” Bucky asks, striding out of the elevator.

“No,” Bruce replies, looking up from his readings briefly, “The ones that survived all used cyanide capsules, similarly positioned to the one the- Captain Rogers had. The lone survivor from the cell break in is currently in a coma.”

Bucky grits his teeth and curls his fingers into fists, slowing to a stop.

_Damn it._

“None of them had any identifiable insignias or IDs, not even money,” Natasha adds in, arms crossed, “Nothing to trace them back to who sent them. Stark is working double time on the Soldier’s arm and leg to try and get a lead.”

 _Stark **has** been working on the arm and leg and hasn’t found **anything**_ , Bucky wants to say, but keeps it to himself. Natasha sends him a small, short look saying she knows.

“Is it possible to ask Captain Rogers himself?” Bruce asks after a moment, looking to Sam.

Bucky looks, too.

Sam shakes his head a little, crossing his own arms. He’s got a bruise up the side of his right cheek.

“No,” he answers, “Not yet. He only just asked _me_ a question before the break in, wanted to know who ‘Stevie’ was. I asked Jarvis to show him some World War Two footage.”

Bucky’s heart clenches.

“How did he-” he cuts himself off, closes his mouth and bites his tongue before redirecting, “The agent in a coma is our best chance. Is there a way we could speed up his being able to talk?” he asks.

Bruce shakes his head, frowning a little. “Not that I can think of, not without risk.”

It’s silent for a minute.

“What about a way of finding out what he knows _without_ having to wake up him up?” Bucky asks. It’s not like stranger things haven’t happened.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Thor?”

“Maybe,” Natasha cuts in, considering. She glances at Bucky and then turns for the elevator after a moment. “I’ll find out.”

It’s not beyond Bucky anymore to think that maybe something like that _could_ exist, and could be used to help _Steve, too_.

-

Bucky heads down to the lab after, spends half an hour watching Steve on a holoscreen in a position other than _prone_ with _relief_ and tries to pace off his energy in Stark’s lab.

“I appreciate your doggedness,” Stark comments distractedly, leaned in close to his various holoscreens, “I should really invent something that converts all that pacing into reusable energy.” Stark pauses, pulling up a new, tinier screen to briefly make a note just for that, putting on a small show of it.

Bucky huffs quietly, but doesn’t stop pacing, not yet.

Stark’s been quiet for the past ten minutes, and Bucky’s grateful he’s given him the time to try and... _focus_.

They might not always get along, but Stark isn’t...so bad, since Bucky’s gotten to spend a bit more time with him one-on-one. It’s when they’re around everyone _else_ that Stark can get a little too... _Stark_. Groups of people seem to have that effect on him, though. His father was the same way, but Bucky’s learned to keep that door shut.

Bucky finally slows his pacing to a stop, heading over to get a closer look at the arm and leg scans Stark has pulled up, gut churning.

“Who would be capable of building something like this?” he asks, mostly to himself.

“I don’t know,” Stark replies, teeth gritted, “ _Yet_. But _whoever_ it was, and you’re probably not going to want to hear this part, put a lot of... _love_ into it.”

Bucky’s stomach clenches.

“Love?” he makes himself ask.

Stark sits up, eyes squeezing shut when his spine pops in three different places. It sounds a little like cracking open walnuts to Bucky’s ears.

“The craftsmanship,” Stark explains on a sigh as his body slumps back down; relaxed. He looks over at Bucky, then over to the cases on the far table where the arm and leg are currently being housed. “It’s like the effort and detail I put into my armor. A ‘labor of love’. Whoever crafted it enjoyed their work and put it together with a painstaking amount of attention to detail.”

Bucky’s fingers curl under his arms.

“Something like that usually has a signature on it,” Stark continues, looking back up to the screens, “Or in it. I’ve been trying to find one, but nothing’s shown up. _Yet_.”

They go quiet again, Bucky staring at schematics and Stark searching them.

“You know what I can’t stop thinking about, though?” Tony asks after a while, and Bucky turns his head to look over at him.

Stark’s fingers stop for a moment, holoscreens going untouched.

“They had _Captain America_ turned into a lethal killing machine who didn’t seem to think or feel until he spent some time in Casa de Avengers Tower, and who next to _no one_ really _knew_ about,” he says, “It makes me wonder just what _else_ is out there in the world that we- that _no one,_ knows about. What _else_ is mankind, the _world_ , hiding?”

Bucky’s lips part a little, but he doesn’t say anything.

He gets it though. What other terrifying truths are still swimming around in the abyssal deep of the world that is _not_ as open or as transparent as it looks? Hell, it’s like being in Times fucking _Square_ in the futur- present _._ Beautiful, sure, but full of mystery and terror and pain that none of them seemed to even _consider_ before and that you can’t see from the surface, none except maybe Natasha.

Stark starts typing on the holoscreens again, searching and searching, and Bucky says nothing.

Says nothing at all.

____________

She sits quietly.

She’s always been efficient at that, even if she’s never liked it: sitting quietly.

Jarvis said he would be waking soon, and she’s long since stopped holding his hand. She won’t be caught in that cliche.

Clint’s head shifts a little after another few minutes and he groans quietly. She sits up and reaches for the pitcher on the nightstand, filling a cup and grabbing a new, small sponge out of the pack she dug out of the drawer. Clint groans again, something like her name, and she bends forward while dipping the sponge in the cup before reaching up to press it to his parted lips.

“Drink slow,” she orders, soft but firm, and he obeys, for once.

“‘Tasha?” he asks after, rough as sandpaper but intelligible now, at least.

“You’re on the medical floor in Avengers Tower,” she tells him, “The Winter Soldier blew you up in a building.”

He jerks a little at that and then forcefully relaxes back into the bed with a cringe almost as quickly, grunting quietly.

“Your jaw is fractured,” she warns.

He grunts again. “How long-?”

“Almost a week,” she answers, re-dipping the sponge and reaching back up. He parts his mouth for her. “We have the Soldier in custody and Stark is working on tracing his metal limbs back to their source.”

Clint grunts again, makes to grab the cup when he gets fed up and she sits back with it with a look, out of reach. He settles down again.

“Why’s he still alive?” Clint asks, lips tugging down, “And why here? If we’ve got his limbs, then-”

“He’s Captain America,” she cuts him off. He goes still for a solid minute before deflating further into the bed, un-bandaged eye on her.

“You’re kidding,” he says flatly.

She stares.

“You’re not kidding,” he sighs, eye closing, “ _How_ in the _hell_ -”

“Stark’s working on it,” she cuts him off again, pressing the sponge to his lips. He obediently holds his tongue while she squeezes more water into his mouth.

She keeps it up for another few minutes while filling him in on the rest, but she’s stalling, and he knows it. But he doesn’t say anything. He knows to wait. He’s trained her as well as she’s trained him.

“The Winter Soldier was one of my trainers in the Red Room,” she eventually says, quietly. Clint’s eye widens fractionally but otherwise he’s still, patient, listening. “I figured out who he was a little less than halfway through our training. It was pointless to bring it up after I joined S.H.I.E.L.D.”

What good would it have done? Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. could find the Red Room, but she couldn’t find whoever was holding him, and she knew S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t have been able to, either. That, and what they would have found might have been better off put down than captured.

And now?

“I don’t know what to do,” she says after a moment, quieter, “You brought me in.”

“Nat,” Clint says, a warning caught in three different directions. _They shouldn’t do this; it’s a bad idea; you were different._

“You brought me in,” she repeats, no louder, no firmer, not forceful in the least, “I don’t know if it’s worth trying to do the same for him.” Would it be a mercy or a kindness? Or would it be cruelty?

She thinks she knows which it would be, but-

She doesn’t have a score to settle with him. His cruelty and kindness in the Red Room wasn’t done with the forethought that she has use of now. This isn’t the beginning for either of them, not the beginning of a road or a path that they’re careening down with or without choice. It’s the end of that path. But whether she should drag him onto another or let him go, she’s not sure.

She knows which Bucky would choose, but this isn’t about him; it’s about the Soldier.

Which is why she needs _him_.

Clint stares back, blinking just the once, and holds her stare before slowly reaching over and settling his hand over hers on the edge of the bed.

It’s not an answer at all, and yet, now she knows what she is going to do.

But, that was his intention, and that is why she came to him.

____________

_I wanna sleep next to you, but that's all I wanna do right now_

_And I wanna come home to you, but home is just a room full of my safest sounds_

_Cause you know that I can't trust myself with my 3 am shadow_

_I'd rather fuel a fantasy than deal with this alone_

He jolts up in bed with a gasp, reaching out a hand and-

“ _Steve?_ ”

He gradually registers a clock ticking nearby, but the apartment stays otherwise as silent and empty as it’s ever been.

Right. Nat forced him out of the Tower. For his own good, he knows, but this might be the last night he can make himself stay here while Steve is-

Bucky pulls his hand back in and slides it down his face before dropping back to the bed and staring up at the ceiling. He pretends the lights that slant by through the blinds are silent fireworks instead of cars.

“ _Steve_ ,” he whispers, choked, throat tightening rapidly, and turns onto his side, burying the burning of his eyes and his face into the pillow and curling up in the tossed-and-turned wreckage of his sheets.

-

He finally drags himself out of bed an hour later and packs his clothes, what little there is. He tried shopping once, some time after the Invasion, bought a nice shirt, but mostly he’d just wanted to come back here and drink himself under the table ( _just like his old man, right_ ). Now, he packs it all up and takes a last glance around before heading out, slipping down the fire escape in the night like some kind of thief so he doesn’t have to bother with the front door.

He walks into Avengers Tower with a duffle over his shoulder and a cup of coffee in hand, sipping at it the whole way up the elevator. The serum takes care of grogginess, mostly, even at three am, and the caffeine doesn’t actually do anything for him now, but it tastes good and reminds him of different times, better times, and he’ll gladly take a cup of memories, even if they cost him a small fortune.

He’s _still_ trying to wrap his head around the price of _lettuce_.

The elevator slows to a stop and he steps out onto his floor, just long enough to drop his bag back in the main bedroom before getting back into the elevator again and taking it down to the sub-floors.

When he gets to it, he stops at the cell door, staring.

He could ask Jarvis to pull up a holoscreen, let him see into the room. Heck, Jarvis might tell him how Steve’s doing if he stands here long enough. Stark said something about facial pattern recognition, something. He was listening, but he doesn’t want to put forth the effort to recall it right now. Because he can. He’s got photographic memory, now. How about that, Stevie?

He stares at the metal. It looks cold.

Steve would give him shit for it, all the Science Fiction. Bucky loved it, would read it any chance he got. Steve would tease him about it but he’d still end up curled on the other end of the sofa, sketching anything and everything, both from his head and from the stories Bucky read them. Fantastical stories about future worlds and civilizations, robot men and flying cars.

He doesn’t realize he’s moved until he’s lowering his head and his forehead touches metal, just as cold as it looked.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs, cringes because it’s so damn selfish, “ _Please remember_.” He squeezes his eyes shut, ignores the stinging behind them. “ _Please remember me_ ,” he whispers.

On the other side of the door, the Soldier dreams.

____________

_And I’ll use you as a focal point, so I don’t lose sight of what I want_

_And I’ve moved further than I thought I would, but I missed you more than I thought I would_

_And I’ll use you as a makeshift gauge, of how much to give and how much to take_

Bucky jerks awake to the sound of the alarm going off and stumbles to his feet as the elevator doors open, Natasha practically flying out of it and down the hall like a bat out of Hell. He has just enough mind with all the adrenaline going through his veins to get the cell door open in time so she barely has to stop, Sam running into the room behind her.

“He’s seizing!” she calls, dropping to a stop next to Steve, who’s-

His back is bowed sharp and his body is taut as a plank, fingers like claws attempting to dig their ways into the floor and teeth grit on barely there, _strained_ sounds, caught like knives in his throat that get ground into dust.

Sam drops on Steve’s other side with a med kit in hand, dropping it to try and help Nat turn Steve onto his side. A medical team rushes past Bucky a few minutes or a century after, he’s not sure, just sees the white flare of lab coats and feels them brushes his arm on the way by.

 _I should help_ , he thinks dumbly.

His fingers curl into fists.

Steve’s body gives another jolt like he’s being shocked.

 _There’s nothing I can do_ , Bucky thinks, helpless and frayed, fingers curling tight enough he becomes barely aware of his nails digging sharp into his palms.

He keeps his eyes trained on Steve, can’t look anywhere else, and for a moment, while the med team and Sam and Nat are all in a flurry around him, Steve’s eyes open.

For a moment, Steve’s eyes find his.

And for that moment, Bucky could swear they’re the eyes of his best friend. For a moment, Bucky could swear they _know_ him for the first time since all this started.

 _Please remember me_.

What was that saying about wishes?

 

_Be careful what you wish for._

____________

_Drowning to silence the internal violence, I pray_

_To make it through_

_The stormwinds are growing as my dreams are blowing away_

_Just like you_

“He’s stabilized.”

Bucky blows out a slow breath, eyes sliding shut.

“The doctors aren’t sure what caused it, but Jarvis is running a full scan on him now while he’s still out,” Sam finishes.

Bucky nods slightly, then hunches forward until his forehead touches the backs of his forearms on top of his knees, raising his arms until his thumbs touch the back of his head, tightening his laced fingers.

 _Steve’s okay. He’s fine_ , he thinks to himself, over and over and over again.

He doesn’t hear Sam move away.

“Do you want some company?” Sam eventually asks.

Bucky doesn’t move, either, really trying to think that over. After a minute, he asks, “Do you still want to talk to him?” instead of answering.

After a few moments, Sam answers, “Yeah,” and Bucky lets out another breath, sitting back up against the wall and opening his eyes to stare at his arms, at his knees.

“He knew me,” Bucky says quietly, and looks up, “For a moment, it looked like he knew me.”

Sam stares back, then pulls his hand out of his pocket as he moves to sit down against the wall opposite him.

 

The hall’s empty now, no medic team or Natasha, just them and the silence. Well, as close to silence as Bucky gets anymore with his hearing. Sam’s heartbeat is a steady, calm thing and its presence calms Bucky down in ways he’s beyond grateful for. Maybe someday, he’ll get to memorize the sound of Steve’s. He wasn’t really paying too much attention before, but he wonders if Steve’s and Sam’s sound alike, if it sounds like it did during the war. He’d be able to hear it clearer now, wouldn’t he?

“I can’t tell you anything, reassuring or otherwise,” Sam starts, eyes on him. Bucky watches him back. “But I _hope_ this all works out, for you and for him.” Bucky’s lips tick up one side and Sam’s follow with a raised brow. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Bucky shakes his head, lowering it and his eyes to stare back down at his hands, “Just...hope.” That was always Steve’s thing. Bucky was the realism to Steve’s idealism, then the cynic to his hope during the war. Now, he’s...he’s missing his other half, is what he is. He’s stuck out at sea while his compass is lying unconscious and amnesiac in a cell seven feet to his right.

“It’s not a bad thing to have,” Sam teases, light and quiet, and Bucky actually smiles for the first time in...a while, eyes falling closed for a moment.

“No,” he agrees, “It’s not.” Except when it’s falling off a train and taking most of your world with it.

Bucky tilts his head back until it touches the wall and then turns it, staring at the cell door.

He doesn’t make a wish this time because he’s learned his lesson, and he doesn’t know what the ramifications of his first one are gonna be.

“No, it’s not,” he whispers a repeat.

He’s getting used to the gaping ache in his chest.

____________

Humming...quiet...No, that’s not right. Is it?

_It’s soft and high, young. It thinks it’d know her voice anywhere, now, burned into its mind almost- No, nothing’s like the electricity. Nothing. The electricity scorches, but her? She burns. It’s different in a way it can’t word, but it is different. She hurts...less, though almost as deep, in some ways._

_Nothing’s as deep as the electricity._

_She’s humming-_

_A man’s voice, soft and low, not humming. Reading? Reading something. It sounds like it’s hearing it underwater, words muddled and blurred, but...comforting?_

_The words stop._

_No, please keep reading-_

_Please-_

_Don’t go-_

_Don’t leave me he-_

Its eyes slide open and the ceiling slowly comes into view, blur sharpening into focus. It soon registers the humming. It’s not as high as it was in its...dream, but it is still soft.

It turns its head, view blurring from the ceiling down to the red woman-

_Red on snow- Whipping in the wind like fire-_

“Na...talia...” it croaks, voice scratchy and rough. The name floats up from nowhere, but somewhere. It doesn’t analyze it too closely, not now.

_Trees swaying in the blizzard, the coat around it too tight, but-_

_But._

_The muted sound of crutches on pavement, a door banging shut-_

It winces slightly.

The humming has stopped.

There are steel, green-grey eyes focused on it.

It stares back.

It hurts to do so, not physically. Not its body. A different kind of hurt.

What kind?

“ _Soldier_ ,” she replies in Russian, voice still soft, but deadly, somehow. She is deadly.

_She was deadly. That’s right, isn’t it?_

Wait-

“ _Dog_ ,” it whispers, almost chokes on it, the Russian word curling off its tongue, almost familiar but still strange, close-

She remains still.

“ _I am_ …”

It is.

Dog.

After a silent minute, she says, “ _Dog_ ,” and something clicks into place somewhere, soft but painful, like her voice, like the whisper of an echo in the back of its head, and it has to work to keep its eyes from wincing shut.

There it is, the familiarity slotting into place. Her voice was saying it, not its.

Her lips curl up.

“ _Are you ready to come in from the cold?_ ” she asks.

“ _We are not made to be warm_ ,” it replies before it can think, and her smile...softens.

“ _Even knives have homes in sheaths_ ,” she says, soft and low, and it can’t keep its eyes open anymore.

 _Not this one_ , it wants to say, but the words die in its throat when small, rough fingertips lightly brush its hair from its face.

“Even you,” she whispers in English, like she _knows_ , and its eyes burn and spill, bleeding out things it doesn’t know, can’t name, but that...ache, deep in its ribcage, like crushed birds trying to flap their wings. But it broke them.

 _I broke them_. _They can’t fly anymore_ , its mind whispers.

The fingers stay gentle in its hair, setting off small explosions beneath its skin, its bones, and it turns towards her onto its side and curls up tight like a...child.

____________

“ _What plans do we have in place to retrieve the asset?”_ one asks, face grainy onscreen, _“We must recover the weapon before things get even further out of hand and its programming begins to erode_.”

Secretary Pierce laces his fingers together. “Our agent is still positioned within the Strike Team.”

“ _The Captain hasn’t been deployed on a mission in a week. Perhaps it is time to send him out on one and let our agent get closer,”_ the other suggests, lips curling up slyly.

A contemplative sort of silence with an edge to it fills the room. At least, that’s what he’s picking up.

“ _Arrange it,”_ the first instructs.

Secretary Pierce stands. “Hail Hydra.”

“ _Hail Hydra_ ,” the second replies.

Both videos cut out.

Silence.

“It seems our partners are growing antsy,” Secretary Pierce comments.

He steps out of the slant of shadow he’d been idling in.

“Can’t say I blame ’em,” he replies, “The programming’s already begun to break down, by now.”

Secretary Pierce hums. “Yes, that will be a nuisance. What was its functionality during that point?”

“We observed volatile, erratic behavior, memory resurfaces here and there. Mostly it just seemed to shut down, couldn’t handle it,” he answers, setting his hands on his hips.

“So it won’t be useful in a fight,” Pierce deduces, “And Stark has probably taken its limbs.”

He says nothing. There’s nothing to say. Just wait for orders.

Silence.

“Infiltrate the Tower,” Pierce decides, “If possible. Quietly. Take your time, but not your leisure. We can’t afford it. Get close enough to the Captain to at least get a read on the situation inside, then report back and we’ll make our move, since Mr. Lukin’s didn’t work.” Pierce tilts and inclines his head slightly. “Our _other_ partner is eager to try some... _new things_ on Stark’s mainframe.”

“Yes, sir,“ Rumlow answers, standing up straight and lips tugging up into a sharp smirk, teeth bared like a predator about to sink its teeth into prey. “Understood.”

____________

_And I’ll be wrapped around your finger, I’ll be wrapped around your finger_

“Going out?”

Bucky sighs, turning around and walking backwards.

“Yeah,” he answers, “Fury’s got a mission for me. Shouldn’t be more than three days.” _More like three centuries_ , he thinks. “Send me updates?” he asks, trying not to beg.

Natasha nods and Bucky turns back around, heading into the elevator. He crosses his arms and barely keeps from tapping his foot the whole way down, head down and bangs dangling. They catch his attention when he shifts his weight to his other foot and he pauses, considers them.

 _I’ll let it grow, for now_ , he decides, lifting his head and heading out once the elevator slows to a stop and the doors open.

“ _Have a safe journey, Captain Barnes_ ,” Jarvis calls along the parking garage walls.

“Thanks,” Bucky replies, waving in no specific direction.

-

Natasha heads into the other elevator, stops by her floor to grab some small equipment before taking the elevator up to the med floor.

-

“We’ve got a delicate hostage situation in Chile,” Fury starts, “You’ll be working with the C.I.A. I need you to get in, rescue the hostages quietly, and get out.”

“Sir,” Bucky answers, only a little sarcastic with the word. Steve was always better at that than he was, after everything. The ‘good soldier’ part. “With all due respect, I think my sniper training would be put to better use than the shield and going in dressed as the U.S. flag, on this one.”

Fury raises an eyebrow. “For this mission, yes,” he agrees, and Bucky tries to keep in the relieved breath. “You’ll be joined by the Strike Team,” Fury continues, “Dress stealth. Let no one know you were there. The C.I.A will aid in keeping the mission top secret and quiet. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” Bucky answers.

Fury nods. “Head out.”

Bucky turns and heads for the door.

-

Natasha turns the handle and steps into the room, lips tilting up at Clint’s shifting and muffled, “ _Nat?_ ” She closes the door quietly behind herself and walks over, stopping at his bedside.

“I have a job for you,” she states, setting the equipment down on the side of his bed. He frowns a little, shifting his hand over and thumbing one of the headphone ear cushions.

“M’deaf,” he mumbles, careful of his jaw, and raises an eyebrow at her to finish the rest of that sentence.

Her lips curl up further. “Modified. I think you’ll like them,” she returns. He glances down at the headphones again, thumb rubbing the pleather.

He looks back up.

“I’m not taking any chances,” she adds, moving to round his bed and head back for the door, angling her face towards him so he can read her lips, “Besides, it will give you something to do.”

He grunts quietly at that and lifts the headphones, trying to work them over the bandages wrapped around his head.

____________

“Any updates on our second guest?” Tony asks.

“ _None yet, Sir,_ ” Jarvis replies, “ _Doctor Banner is currently formulating an ‘adrenaline cocktail’ as we speak_.”

“ _That_ should get a response,” Tony muses.

“ _Indeed, Sir_.”

“Any luck on that global trace?” he asks after another minute of silence and code scanning.

“ _I have searched through every known database and sub-database on the continent_ ,” Jarvis replies, “ _And am currently narrowing down the online databases within China. Nothing yet, Sir_.”

“Careful,” Tony says idly, “Don’t wanna get caught.”

“ _I shall endeavor to be discreet._ ”

Tony’s lips twitch, just a little.

“Keep an eye out when you get to Germany,” he adds, tacking on after a moment, “And Russia.” That red star did look _awfully_ familiar.”

“ _Yes, Sir._ ”

He works on reinforcing his helmet, all his helmets, compares the armor piercing bullet’s composition to his latest modifications and nods to himself after a thorough inspection, shutting off his blowtorch. He shoves his welding helmet’s visor up, eying the suit helmet again critically.

“ _Doctor Banner is ready_ ,” Jarvis eventually reports, tugging Tony out of his scrutiny, “ _He is now en route to Cell Thirty-four._ ”

Tony’s glad he decided to go ahead and build that sub-division cell floor, even if Pepper _is_ currently semi-disapproving. He was just being cautious! Isn’t that what she _wants?_

“Give him the green light and open a feed,” Tony replies.

Doctor Banner appears on screen a short second later, camera following his path and switching from corner angle to corner angle. When Bruce eventually gets to the cell, he looks up at the nearest corner-tucked camera before hand-scanning his way into the makeshift medical room-cell combo, wasting no time in walking over to the bed and sliding the needle into one of the I.V. tubes.

Bruce takes a large step back, like he’s expecting an explosion.

Instead, there’s silence, and then the coma mystery agent’s body _jack-knives_ almost clear up off the bed, even _with_ the full body restraints, immediately followed by what looks like a rapid series of small seizures.

Tony hears and sees the heart machine flatline, the agent dropping back to the mattress, then he seems to _jolt_ back to life, the machine kicking back up and the agent’s eyes snapping open wide and wild with it.

The agent’s eyes take in the room rapid-pace, looking around for a wild moment before he’s reaching across himself and ripping out the I.V. line, throwing his hand up and _stabbing_ himself in the neck with the needle before Bruce can take more than a hurried step with a half shout-

Just before the agent’s body goes still, he whispers something, and then his hand falls, red pouring out of him like he’s a downtown fountain.

“Replay footage and enhance audio,” Tony instructs after a moment, voice rough. He swallows and tries to clear it.

The agent in the video rips the line out and stabs himself again, and this time Tony can hear the clarity of it loud and clear: the puncture of skin, the gush of warmth spilling out of its confines, and-

It’s mangled and mostly gargled, but he hears-

“ _...Hail….Hy-...dra…_ ”

Well, that...explains some things.

The video stops and returns to the feed, Doctor Banner staring up into the camera.

“We’ve got a problem,” Tony says, and Bruce nods on screen.

“ _I have reached Germany_ ,” Jarvis announces, and not twenty seconds later a match _pings_ , just before the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo flashes big over the screen.

“So…” Tony trails off, “Who do you think should tell Barnes the news?”

And-

“ _He’s on a mission for Fury_ ,” Bruce interrupts quietly, “ _How close is he to Germany?_ ”

“Nowhere near, thank God,” Tony replies, ignoring the flashing S.H.I.E.L.D. logo. A request flashes across his second screen in bright red letters a second later. “Hang on, his boss wants to talk.” Bruce turns a little more towards the camera and then exits the cell on screen while Tony says, “Answer.”

Fury’s face flashes on screen.

“ _Stark_ ,” he says, “ _We need to talk._ ”

He’d rather not, but-

Well.

“Kinda busy,” he tries to stall, “Can it wait?”

Fury just looks at him. “ _I know about the Winter Soldier_.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Winter what?” Tony replies, throwing up a panic hand sign off screen while he keeps his face schooled.

“ _I’ve been keeping tabs on your search engine_ ,” Fury says, head inclining slightly.

“What? Rude. Ever heard of privacy?” Tony’s heart rate spikes, fingers throwing up another screen out of frame to run a backtrace.

“ _Ever since you hacked into **S.H.I.E.L.D. files** on the first helicarrier._ ”

“Um,” Tony replies eloquently, “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Fury just stares for a long minute. “ _I want him brought in._ ”

“Absolutely not,” Bruce objects, and Tony could kiss the ground he _walks_ on.

Bruce comes to a stop at his shoulder and Fury’s eye shifts.

“Even if we did have this ‘Winter Soldier’, hypothetically speaking, he would be in no state to be transported _or_ interrogated,” Bruce continues.

Fury lowers his head a little. “ _You think you’ve got a choice?_ ”

Bruce narrows his eyes fractionally. “You think _you_ do?”

Tony types in a quick, one-handed command to have Jarvis check every single back door while they have their stare down.

“ _Is the whole team backing this?_ ”

“Is all of S.H.I.E.L.D. backing you?”

Fury’s eye narrows. “ _This is a private call, but it doesn’t have to stay that way._ ”

Bruce actually crosses his arms. It’s a casual gesture, but maybe all the more impending for it. “Neither does this one.”

Fury’s eye un-narrows. “Meaning?”

“Meaning Captain Barnes is currently on a mission for you,” Bruce replies, “If you know what we know; Tony, how willing to help do you think Barnes is going to be if Fury tries to take this away from him?”

“Not much,” Tony replies breezily, glancing to the side when he finds the backdoor.

 _Aha. Gotcha_. Stupidly easy to find when he knows it’s _there_. He needs to up his security. Again.

“Not much,” Bruce reiterates.

They have another stare down before Fury eventually blows out a quiet breath, tension easing somewhat, or shifting, rather. “ _What do you know?_ ”

So, Fury might not actually _know_ that it’s Rogers, just that they have the Soldier.

“We’ll let you know,” Bruce answers, “End call.”

Jarvis closes it.

Silence.

Tony whistles, turning to look back over his shoulder and up at Bruce. “Cahones.”

Bruce blows out a breath, expression sobering, after. “I’m a doctor, too,” he says, “And he really isn’t…” He doesn’t continue, but he doesn’t need to. Rogers is a mess, inside and out. He’s not fit to go anywhere.

Tony looks back forward, isolating and deleting the backdoor and its tracker-tracer.

“Yeah,” is all he says. Because Bruce is right.

Even if Rogers were in the condition to do it, Barnes would never let it happen, anyway.

“We sink or swim together,” Tony adds, later. The small quirk of a side smile he gets from Bruce is worth it.

And then another screen flashes up of the Soldier’s cell as Jarvis says that his vitals have spiked again and he’s screaming.

Tony will remember the sound of it for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. Next chapter we're getting into Steve's trauma. Added a chapter to the count, too, because the structure's changed a bit.


	3. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, yes, I have not forgotten about this. Thank you Kay for looking it over. <333 Happy holidays, because I don't know if I'm going to be able to finish the next chapter before then. I'm sorry for the very long wait. I got stuck. I also added a chapter to the overall count because I think I'm going to be putting an epilogue.
> 
> This is the song I had on repeat for the last few sections; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LEG-wqg3b2M Astronomical by SVRCINA

_It's the dark of night and I'm at the end of the line_

_Alone in my head and waiting for something divine_

_To answer me_

_Failure is calling as my dreams are falling apart_

_Just like you_

It finally manages to suck in a ragged breath, eyes open wide and gradually focusing from _nothingwhitenothing_ to a corner, two walls meeting together sharp and grey, familiar. Its chest constricts again with remembered ice freezing down its veins, spread out like a body-wide fracture-

_Error_

It choke-coughs, eyes squeezing shut as it sucks in another ragged breath. There’s voices, sounds, but it can’t focus, hears them muddled and hollow and warped like water in its ears and- and there’s hands on it, too, gripping tight, almost bruising, sensation coming back in a dizzying flash, the ice going hot-cold like freezer burn all over-

“ _Rogers- Rogers can you_ -”

“- _me, Soldier-_ ”

It shivers, teeth chattering up into its skull like nails driven in deeper and deeper until the feeling is numb, head tilted back and eyes still shut.

“- _shock-”_

_“-heating-...warm him-”_

_“-get_ -”

It realizes it has been translating the English words into Russian. It is failing.

 _It is failing_.

\-----

It feels like unwoven ribbon ( _redredsored_ ), the pieces that make it heavy and clunky but the joints fragile, brittle, old but nebulous. It’s those it has to watch out for. One wrong step, one wrong turn or twist and the pieces will fall and it- it doesn’t know where it will end up if they do. 

It does not know if it is scared of the possibilities. There are too many. It decides not to think of them.

\-----

_Kiss me on the mouth and set me free_

_\-----_

_Somewhere between the soul and soft machine is where I find myself again_

_\-----_

“What do you think of the CIA?” Bucky asks. 

Rumlow rolls his shoulders. “They have their uses.”

They walk on for a bit.

“You’re lookin a little ragged there, Cap,” Rumlow comments.

“Barnes,” Bucky corrects automatically. 

Rumlow’s lips curve, eyes ahead. “Right. Barnes.”

“I haven’t been sleeping much,” Bucky allows himself to admit.

“I’d suggest a tall glass of bourbon, but with that serum of yours?” Rumlow makes a vague, considering sound amidst the distant bird song, “Might wanna go with the twelve rounds against a car.”

Bucky huffs a dry snort. “I’ll consider it.”

“Ha,” Rumlow lets out, looking over briefly before his eyes go back to scanning the area, “Now _that_ I’d like to see.”

Now Bucky makes a considering sound. “Maybe one of these days I’ll record it,” he jokes.

They share a smirk before the CIA liason up ahead holds up a fist. They go still and quiet, waiting, the S.T.R.I.K.E. team a lion pack ready to converge. 

At the signal, they move in. Bucky takes down five building guards and Rumlow takes three. It’s impressive.

\--

The hostage rescue goes off without a hitch. The Strike team, Bucky’s still getting used to. Hell, him leading a _team_ he’s still getting used to, and- They’re not the Commandos, but they are damn good at their jobs. It felt good to hold a sniper rifle again too, familiar, much more than the shield.

“ _Remember!_ ” Rumlow calls on Bucky’s way out, “ _Twelve rounds!_ ”

Bucky throws him a lazy salute and turns back around, heading for the Triskelion parking garage.

Maybe he’ll do that.

\--

He steps through the Tower doors an hour and a half later and feels better already, requesting an update on the way up. “How’s Steve doing, Jarvis?” he asks, looking up out of habit.

“ _There has been a minor development while you were away, but no one has been harmed,_ ” Jarvis replies.

“Development?” Bucky asks with a frown. The elevator doors slide open and he jerks his head back down, stepping out- 

He stops.

“Sooo…” Tony trails off, shifting from foot to foot in his apartment, “We’ve got a couple things to tell you.”

Bucky’s frown deepens, gut churning while he back steps back into the elevator, Tony following him in.

“There was, um…” Tony trails off again, eyes up and watching the floor numbers go by, stalling.

“Spit it out, Stark,” Bucky snaps.

The elevator doors slide open-

Tony practically leaps out, heading straight for his lab. “Turns out Hydra’s still alive and Rogers had a nightmare and couldn’t breathe and Fury knows that we have him but not who he is also that likely Hydra guy we had died and Bruce was a badass-” he stops and takes a deep breath, eyes on anything _but_ him.

Bucky stares, caught in the elevator.

“Um...so yeah! I’ll just...be over here,” Tony finishes, clapping his hands once and spinning back around. Bucky darts out of the elevator and grabs his arm before he can get too far and Tony stills.

“ _What_ ,” Bucky says more than asks, and Tony slowly turns around, pulling up a holoscreen with his fingers.

“That nazi organization you guys tried to wipe out in the forties? Still kicking,” Tony answers, and Bucky’s eyes drag from his face over to the holoscreen. 

It’s a map and information on- the arm and leg. The Winter Soldier’s arm and leg. Steve’s arm and leg. Says something about sourcing out of Germany, Russia, Austri-

Bucky swallows. His throat’s dry.

It can’t mean that. It can’t mean what it says. That would mean-

“That’s…” he trails off, voice rough. Tony doesn’t finish the thought for him, no one does. The world doesn’t hold that kind of mercy.

His world starts shifting and then grease-slick hands on his arms push and steer him back- somewhere. Bucky lands on a small couch, a game- _thing_ digging into his backside. He barely registers it. His eyes drift then snap up to Tony. “ _Are you sure?_ ” he demands.

Tony just summons another holoscreen and Bucky drags his eyes to it.

The man- potential _Hydra agent_ they captured is on the screen, bleeding buckets from his neck. Tony gestures in his periphery and the volume rises.

_“...Hail….Hy-...dra…”_

The hair on the back of Bucky’s neck stands on end. 

He doesn’t feel anything, his insides are a frozen wasteland, bare of life and trees and fruit. Barren ( _Barren Barnes, ha_ ). Everything is gone.

 _At least I’m the same as Steve now_.

The thought makes him snap and he jumps to his feet, making a beeline for the elevator. The doors open before he reaches them and close behind him. Tony’s steps don’t echo his.

The elevator scales back down the building, takes him where he wants to go without instruction. He gets out as soon as the doors open, heading straight for the cell door at the end of the hall. He gets it open and- and stares, finally lets himself take in the damage.

Steve’s right arm and left leg are gone. He’s never getting them back. They’re upstairs in- They-

“Hydra,” he says, and Steve half rolls onto his back, watches Bucky with a stare Bucky’s never seen on that face, in those eyes. Steve opens his mouth, voice scratchy, rough-

“Hail-”

 _God, it’s true_.

\-----

He hits the bag.

It’s a thousand miles and years away, the way the sound echoes, the way his fists feel striking the sack, shuddering through the foundation of him, his bones and sinew and skin. 

It’s leaking a small sliver of sand.

He grits his teeth and lunges forward, tears into it with his fingers like claws and spills its guts out all over the gym floor and for a moment, he can smell blood and intestine of long dead men, and he thinks of Steve, _trapped_ with _them_ -

He slaps his wrapped hands over his mouth while he heaves, sprinting for the bathroom, vomit catching the toilet seat. He stares at his reflection in the mess, then flushes it down the pipe and gets up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He stares down at his hands.

 _I let him fall_ , Bucky thinks, an empty echo in the cavern of his skull, _I let him fall into their hands_.

\--

He heads up to his floor after a short while, just about finished unwrapping his hand as he steps out of the elevator. He barely pauses when he sees her, red silk and shadow against the window, and yanks the last mile of fabric off his fist. He thinks about going to the kitchen, drops himself on his unused couch instead, new leather stretching and _creaking_ in the silence. He can smell it, mixing with the scent of his cooling sweat. He bends forward and sets his wraps on the coffee table that stretches on and on, then drops his face into his hands.

Her steps are near silent on the soft carpet, and she doesn’t make them any louder, no purposeful warning sign. She doesn’t need to, his damn hearing picks it up. Bucky’s pretty sure she tested that out early on, got the drop on him only once. Everyone makes sound, only the dead are truly silent. He’d put his fist through a wall for the first time when she’d surprised him.

“Did you know?” he makes himself ask, quiet and muffled into the meat of his hands, in the acoustic of both their breathing in his ears. He has to ask, has to know, even if her and her answers are all smoke and mirrors, fog and knives. Oh, can’t forget the bullets and wire.

“No,” she answers, soft and closer now, “If I had, it might have made him easier to find. Maybe,” she adds, “Maybe not.”

He considers this, then pushes himself back to rest back against the couch, lowering his hands to his lap. “I left him,” Bucky confesses to the dark, to her, to himself, maybe to the universe at large, “I tried to go back. I _did_ go back, but- he wasn’t there. We couldn’t find him. We thought he’d been swept away in the water.” He grits his teeth. _“I should’ve tried harder_.”

It’s quiet.

“You couldn’t have known,” Natasha returns. 

His fingers curl into fists on his tense thighs. “Doesn’t matter,” he grits back. Because this is where that carelessness got them: him sitting on a couch in a highrise, _undeservedly_ doing Steve’s job, and Steve, in a cell below ground turned into a fractured, damaged being by their enemies.

She accepts this, or maybe she doesn’t. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t really care. It is what it is. He can’t take any of it back.

 _Fuck_.

\-----

_“How do you want to proceed?” Father’s voice asks._

_It stares up at the lights in the green tinted ceiling, eyes watering from the sting._

_A higher voice hums, considering. It is the Doctor. The Scientist. It cannot remember his name. Only- It **feels** when the Doctor, the Scientist is around. It feels terrible things. _

_“Replace the muscle and ligament from sections A4-F. We will reinforce the bone,” the Doctor-Scientist decides._

_“Anesthesia? Will it work on him?” Father asks._

_“No. The metabolic rate is far too high.”_

_Metal tapping. Wheels rolling and glinting into its periphery._

_It swallows, just a little._

_It keeps its eyes on the light, focuses on the collection of smells it can sense: sterility, the rubber bit in its mouth, rusted metal, dank air, copper, its own sweat, smoke and ammunition from down the hall, old and stale, now._

_**Click**._

_A buzzsaw fills the silence, grows closer-_

_It screams at the agony that shoots up from its leg, engulfing its body, restraints withstanding its erratic jerks and bit withstanding the spasms of its jaw driving its teeth deeper into the worn grooves of rubber. It smells its own blood, now, tangy and salty at the back of its throat-_

It jerks awake screaming- 

Stops, stares wide-eyed and panting at the lights in the gray ceiling-

It jerks in a half roll to the side and empties its stomach onto the cool floor, smells its own sweat and bile, lungs heaving and strands of hair sticking to its face. That is not when-

That is not when that happened, but it knows-

It stares at its mess cooling on the floor.

Does it know?

\--

“You’ve been having nightmares.”

It keeps its eyes straight ahead.

“Do you want to talk about them?”

 _Silence_.

“You know,” Sam Wilson says quietly, leaning back against a wall, “When I got back from the war, I didn’t want to talk either. I didn’t tell anyone anything for a while, not even my ma. _Especially_ not my ma.” A pause. “I know we haven’t experienced the same things, but each person feels pain. It seems like you’re feeling yours now.”

 _Silence_.

“Could you feel it before?” Sam Wilson asks gently, like knives in its skull.

Its fingers curl behind the cover of its leg, away from Sam Wilson’s prying eyes. There are cameras, but- There are cameras-

“We still don’t know how they took your memories away,” Sam Wilson continues, almost changes the subject, unaware of its slip up, its mistake, its _failure_ , “But Natasha has a few ideas.”

Her name _pings_ , like a signal echoing in the dark, flames dancing in shadow and knives glinting in winter sunlight, bright and hypnotic and deadly. Its eyes almost slant over but it restrains itself. It is getting hard to- to _comply_. To follow _directive_. It is coming apart-

Sam Wilson doesn’t say anything more, just sits in the silence of its continuing ruination until he goes. 

It curls its fist tighter.

\--

She comes in the night, if Sam Wilson’s hours are the same as the average workman’s, a nine hour shift in a dying world. She is quiet, poised, and the gentle beat of pain behind its eyes thumps with each controlled beat of its heart.

“Do you remember me?” she asks, voice mired in shadows. It has been a while since she last asked.

“Natalia,” it croaks, rusty like an aging train engine. Is it aging? Does it age? Machines rust, faster when not in use and left out in the rain. Maybe it will grow red in rust, further the color of the star on its missing arm and decay in this room, too.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” she returns with a small smile, a dagger made of lips.

She is knives and bullets and pirouettes, Russian blizzards and black ballet shoes on reflective wooden floors, shined to perfection every evening. She is whispers in the early morning gray and softer fingers on its cheek, softer than it had expected when she was so young. She is so many things, and none of them.

“ _Fire,_ ” it eventually answers, “ _In the snow. I broke your body to make you strong_.”

Her expression doesn’t shift, but her eyes do. It was always her eyes, it thinks then. Eyes barely change. It remembers-

It cringes, squeezing its eyes shut while it curls in on itself, pulling its knee closer.

“ _Oh, dear Soldier_ ,” she says, “ _Does it hurt?_ ”

 _Yes_ , it thinks, but it will not admit the defeat, not even to her.

\-----

The memories don’t stop, and it realizes that is what they are, whether they are real or not. They are relentless, and they hurt and ache and cut and scream across the spaces in its mind, fill whatever voids they left when they were burned away and stretch as thin as they are able, trying to fill the gaps. They don’t, they can’t, there are too many. But.

But.

It curls onto its side as tightly as it can, and when she comes, lets her pillow its head on her firm thigh and stroke her fingers through its long hair. 

_Warm_ , it thinks distantly, an echo like everything it is made of, echoes and pain, _She is warm_. Has she always been warm?

It curls tighter on a dying sound, screams clawed and tattered in its aching throat. 

It stops asking questions, even in its own head. Its masters could never silence them, not for long, it knows this now, some of it. In the end, it silences itself. It must. Or it will die.

( _And it is strange, to try to avoid that now_ ).

\-----

It wakes screaming again, voice hoarse and heart rabbit quick. It is the prey of its nightmares, dreams, mind. Sam wilson leaves the invitation to talk open, but-...

The things it sees, it knows, a lot of them, they fit into place like half remembered or forgotten puzzle pieces. People slain on order, request, for tests; men, women, animals, children. Nothing escapes Hydra, none except the man with grey-blue eyes, Buc-

Its eyes squeeze shut on the pain and it adopts the now familiar curled position. The soft _whoosh_ of the door sliding open accompanies its pulse hammering in its ears and then she is there, scooping and coddling it like it is the child.

What makes it scream isn’t the memories themselves, not wholly. It is the... _feelings_ of them. It has felt nothing since what feels like time began, and now…

And now it hears a dog yelp in memory and twitches, feels bones snap beneath its hands and jumps, hears a child’s choked off cry and feels its stomach churn. It is all of these things: the pain and order of Hydra, the discipline of the Red Room, the faith and loyalty of Father, the mission, whatever it next might be, the pulled trigger and the knife sunken into a warm belly spilling red all over their fronts like extravagant fountains in long forgotten texts.

But now it is also the choked gurgle of a man, the caught scream of a terrified woman, the whimper of a dutiful dog, the dying light in the eyes of a child who should have stayed in their bed while a monster roamed the halls. It is all of these things, it always has been, but now...now it is aware of the tainted ruin the chair, Hydra, and Father have all kept away, fought back like monsters in the dark of children’s stories and rhymes.

It is a monster now, too. Gone is the glory and preserve of Hydra, here is the ruin of a human man who had died, then was brought back to life in new form, a decimated, broken thing sharpened into a weapon.

\-----

“Natasha tells me you’re doing better,” Bucky says to his mirror, practices, rehearses, prepares-

He doesn’t really know if Natasha ever plans to let him actually see Steve beyond snatched moments of time and holoscreens, stolen glances years due in the span of a bird flapping its fragile wings. But he has to believe it. He’ll bend the world to make it a reality if he has to.

He steadies himself and tries again.

“Sam tells me you’re improving-” No. “-doing better.”

Bucky has to hope that becomes true, too.

\------

Sam watches, observes. Rogers has been quiet, which isn’t unusual in and of itself, but the tension in his body is. He’s stiff, shoulders taut like Hawkeye’s bowstring, leg tense. Sam imagines the veins are probably bulging a bit on Rogers’ arm, too. What all that tension is building up to, though, he’s not sure, but it’s probably not good. Necessary, but no one’s gonna like it, least of all Barnes and Rogers.

So Sam watches, and waits, takes in Rogers while Marvin Gaye plays sounds through the ages over the hidden ceiling speakers. They’ve tried a few things, now, and this one doesn’t seem to elicit a violent reaction. Rogers has been waking up screaming just about every day, usually only the once because he refuses to sleep again after, but it’s snuck up on him once or twice. The last three days he hasn’t slept at all. The more aggressive his mind seems to get, the less he wants to put himself under its influence. Sam can’t really blame the guy. The mind is a dangerous place.

After another half hour, Sam pushes himself to his feet. “I’m here to talk if you need,” he offers on his way out, like he has every so often, because he doesn’t know how well Rogers retains information with his mind as it is, and Sam wants to reassure him that it _is_ okay to talk, needs him to know.

Something changes this time, just a subtle shift, but it has Sam lunging for the door before Rogers’ teeth have even finished gritting and his iron cold glare has shifted. Rogers shouts something at him in Russian, rough and guttural and like broken glass scraping a rain soaked sidewalk. Sam doesn’t know what it means, but he gets the door shut and his breathing back under control. 

Whatever it was, it didn’t sound nice.

\--

“He called you a-” Natasha pauses, “‘Pig fucker’.”

Sam reels back a smidge, frowning. “Colorful.”

Natasha’s lips curl, eyes shifting from him back to the screen. “And good,” she adds. 

He frowns a little more before he realizes it. “Yes,” he agrees, gradually lighting up, “He showed _emotion_.” He wants to tell Bucky, but it’s still too soon for that.

\--

Sam tries visiting Rogers again after he appears to have calmed down. He gets a quiet, growled out insult (apparently), but it’s worth it.

He’s tempted to high five Ms. Romanoff when he gets out, but he’s not sure she’d go for it.

\-----

“I can’t believe I’ve been so blind. It’s been staring me in the _face_.”

Bruce frowns, slipping his bookmark between the pages and looking up. “What?”

Tony gestures to the box the metal arm resides in and Bruce’s eyebrows tangle.

“The star!” Tony lets out, actually throwing his hands up from out of his hair and leaving it a mess, “From Russia with love! How could I have missed it?!”

Bruce considers this. “Well, you didn’t realize Clint was deaf until you saw him and Natasha using sign language at the breakfast table one morning last year.” _And then asked to see Clint’s hearing aids and say more than ask that you were going to make him better-than-S.H.I.E.L.D.’s ones_ , he doesn’t say, raising an eyebrow.

Tony pauses. “Alright. True,” he sighs, focusing back on the arm. He looks like he wants to take it apart, but he hasn’t actually touched it more than necessary since getting it, which is to say, he hasn’t really touched it at all. Jarvis has been doing the heavy lifting. “Still. Obvious,” Tony continues, “Like a stamp. Or a brand.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything to that, opening his book back up. 

He pauses, though. 

Maybe he should leave the floor since Tony’s talking now. He always gets on a tangent-

“Maybe if I…” Tony trails off, slipping into quiet mumbles and mutters.

Bruce’s lips twitch up, and he goes back to his book.

He’ll figure it out.

\----- 

“How is he?”

Sam jumps, almost spills his orange juice down his shirt. Bucky at least looks apologetic. 

“Changing,” Sam settles on.

“Improving?” Bucky asks hopefully.

Sam gives him a softer look and Bucky’s expression wilts, shoulders slumping with a nod. “It’s not an exact science,” Sam explains, looking to the counter for some help, “And his mind is like...I’m not even really sure _what_ it’s like. I’ve only gotten impressions, but-”

Something _pings_ and Bucky makes a face, annoyance all over it as he pulls his phone out, frowning at whatever is on it then sighing and shoving it back into his pocket. “Gotta go,” he says, “ _Please_ tell me more about this when I get back?” he pleads. Sam nods. “Thank you,” Bucky exhales, and he looks it.

Sam watches him go before turning to the kitchen at large.

“If only I knew what to actually say,” he sighs, taking a swallow of orange juice before heading to the other elevator. He takes it down to his floor to call the VA, give them an update on his schedule arrangements, then calls his ma, saying what he can and adding more to the list of what he can’t.

\--

Bucky tries not to tap his foot eight hours later ( _and does tap his foot, horses practically galloping up his leg_ ). He glances at his phone again.

 _Fuck_. It’s only been five minutes.

He drags his eyes up, rubber soles squeaking faintly against the quinjet floor.

“You in a hurry to get somewhere?”

He stops his foot and looks over, caught. “Just wanna get home,” he returns. 

Rumlow inclines his head from across the way. “I used to get that way,” he says, an invitation, an opening line to more conversation that Bucky’s not sure he wants.

“You like the missions,” Bucky states, because it’s true. Rumlow gets pleasure from a mission done and gone well. They’ve done enough together now for Bucky to tell, few as they are. He’s always been a good read on people. Seems like that hasn’t changed.

“Don’t you?” Rumlow returns. Bucky makes sure not to sit back, away. Rumlow smiles, reclining back a bit in his seat, all dark and shadows in more dark and shadows. 

Bucky wonders briefly if Romanoff likes him. They had to have met already at some point. He gets the feeling she probably doesn’t. Anyone like her puts her on edge.

“Get to travel, use the skills I was taught and know like the back of my hand. See the world, save it,” Rumlow continues, raising a brow. “It’s a good deal. ‘Lot better than the other jobs I could’ve had.”

That sends an old chill down Bucky’s spine. ‘Serving’. Thinking about the war always putshim on edge. He shrugs when Rumlow watches him, waiting. “I just wanna get home,” he repeats over the low hum of the engines.

Rumlow shrugs, angling his head. “To each his own. Though, you were in a different war than I was.”

Bucky raises a brow. “Meaning?”

“Nothing. All bad, just different,” Rumlow replies, “Goin’ on history, you saw and did a lot more than a lot of guys nowadays, even when you weren’t Cap.”

Bucky’s stomach squirms.

 _Does that include you?_ he wants to ask, but there’s two kinds of people: the ones that ask and the ones that don’t.

“Yeah,” Bucky settles on a little uneasily instead. Rumlow smiles again, sharp edges in those shadows, and they’re quiet the rest of the trip.

\-----

Sam visits Rogers again. He’s barely in the door this time before Rogers is growling at him, actually _growling_. It should be ridiculous. It’s terrifying. He tries again an hour later; same deal. Tries another hour later, the same. Sam’s still trying to figure it out.

“You don’t like me,” he states, which kind of hurts since he thought they were starting to not-quite get along. Or at least bear occupying the same space semi-peacefully. Rogers hurls insults at him, but from the translations Sam gets, they don’t really make a lot of sense, like he’s trying to voice his anger but doesn’t really know _how_ to.

Miraculously, the growling stops and Rogers looks directly at him.

“...’Like’?” he asks, all quiet and unused gravel. Sam could leap for joy. He asked a _question_ , its own improvement on this long, ragged road.

Now Sam just has to figure out how to answer it without crossing a line.

“Before when I was in here you were quiet, but now every time I come in you growl. You may not have liked me before, which is fine,” he’s quick to add, “But growling is an...outward indication that you don’t like someone. Um…” he glances down in thought, gesturing with his hands, “Don’t want someone in your space.” 

Rogers stares at him for a long minute before jerking slightly and immediately dropping his eyes like he’s realized what he’s doing is wrong.

Damn.

They spend the rest of the session quiet, though Rogers seems thoughtful, at least.

\-----

“You wanna get a drink after?” Rumlow asks. Has, more often than not. The first time, Bucky thought it might’ve been a euphemism.

“Nah, not this time,” he answers. 

Rumlow nods. “Must be nice, livin’ in that tower of yours,” he comments. Bucky glances over. “All that space. You probably get room service, don’t you.” Rumlow grins, a bit like a shark.

“I’ve never tried it,” Bucky quips back. It feels both familiar and strange. He hasn’t really quipped with anyone since the war-

“Well, you might have to for me,” Rumlow reclines back and closes his eyes, “Always was a bit curious about that thing. Though it is kinda ugly.” Rumlow cracks an eye open and winks. 

Bucky’s lips twitch. “Yeah,” he replies, “I’m no design expert, but it’s not the best building I’ve seen.” Steve always used to draw the best views of Brooklyn, made their shitty town look like _gold_. It hurts to think about. Helps to think Stark’s probably turning his nose up at him somewhere right now.

“That’s one fuckin’ way to put it,” Rumlow laughs. 

Bucky’s lips twitch again. The doors open and he turns his head to look, then turns towards the table for the debriefing.

\-----

“So. What’s the problem?” Bucky asks.

Tony swivels his stool around, metal squeaking. He needs to oil it. He needs to oil a lot of things. Anyway. “The problem is that even though you work for Eyepatch and we’re the Avengers, we’ve been drawing enough attention that we can’t just keep barging into foreign countries and causing damage. Or being held responsible for other people’s damage,” he adds in a mutter. “Fact is, we’ve gotten on a lot of radars.”

“You’re being _responsible?_ ” Bruce asks, somewhere between mock-shock and brutally honest.

Tony raises his hands. “I’m just saying. And don’t get used to it,” he points at Bruce, “But in looking for clues on the Mystery Limbs I’ve been hearing a lot of local...chatter.”

“They think we’re _инфорсер_ ,” Natasha chimes in.

Tony pulls up a quick translation and points at her. “Exactly. Which is not good for us.”

“Is there a way we could continue searching quietly?” Bucky finally asks, arms crossed, “We can’t _stop_ looking for Hydra.”

Tony sighs, turning a little away and pulling up a screen. “I’ve found - scarce and extremely difficult to find in the first place; you’re welcome - at least three possibly associated manufacturing companies for the recognizable alloys. Technically one, since the other two are more Hammer level,” he answers, throwing in a vague hand gesture for emphasis.

“‘Recognizable’?” Bucky asks.

Stark pulls up another hologram, waving it into their little pow-wow semicircle. “There’s one Jarvis can’t recognize,” he admits, and it sounds like it costs him, “I’ve been meaning to ask if _you_ do,” he adds towards Thor, “Kinda hoping you don’t.”

Thor takes a step forward and leans closer, eyes roaming the readouts. The glow from the holoscreen makes his eyes an almost alien, vibrant blue. “Unfortunately, I do,” he answers, “It looks to be made of Asgardian metallic compounds.”

Stark’s eyebrows hike briefly before he nods. “Well, they laced quite a bit of it within the overall matrix, so here’s hoping they used all of it doing that.”

“Is it from the Destroyer?” Bruce asks, looking to Thor.

Thor looks back. “Quite possibly. Though if this hidden enemy force managed to get a hold of some, I shudder to think of the holes within your government system.”

“Now there’s a scary thought,” Wilson mutters.

They all look separate ways.

“Well,” Tony claps, “That’s all I had to say for now. If we’re going to keep investigating, we need to be quieter about it.”

“Are you sure you know the meaning of the word?” Natasha teases. 

Tony scowls.

Bucky considers his options before eventually turning for the door. “I’m going to see Steve.” 

No one stops him, thankfully.

\-----

It’s been a few days since Sam has successfully talked to Rogers (at all. Even a word. He’ll take a _word_ ), but now there’s a new status quo: there are times when Rogers is loud, and then there are times when he is quiet, so quiet he has Bucky on edge and even Ms. Romanoff seems tense. Sam knows she sees him sometimes at night, though he thinks she’s _letting_ him know that, and those times seem to help Rogers, but it seems dangerously borderline to becoming a crutch, which won’t help Rogers in the long run. 

Sam keeps an eye on it, but chooses to stay quiet about it for the time being.

It’s the times that Rogers is quiet that have him worried. When he’s shouting, he’s engaging with the world, but when he’s quiet...Sam can only guess what’s going on in his head, but he knows it’s not good.

\--

She opens a holoscreen call. “Stark and Banner are heading to Germany under the guise of a company seize. Enjoying your game?”

On screen, Barton frowns harder down at the board.

Her lips curl. “You’re losing.”

“ _He’s too smart for his own good_ ,” Barton snips. 

Thor’s lips curve up where they’re resting against his palm, hunched over with his elbow propped on his thigh. “ _For a simple game, it does well to create a battle between two minds_ ,” he says, “ _I never used to play such games through to the end, but, it seems I have come some way from then_.” 

He sounds like he’s lamenting it, if just a bit, which means it’s a deeper lament than he’s letting on. It’s not hard for her to connect mind games to his brother.

Barton’s eyebrow twitches. He takes one of Thor’s pieces and after a moment, Thor takes his and replaces it with his own.

“ _How’s Cap?_ ” Barton asks, sighing at Thor’s, “ _Checkmate_.” “ _ **Our** Cap, I mean_ ,” he adds, finally looking up at Natasha. Thor’s eyes join his. 

“As well as can be expected,” she answers, “He’s leaving for another mission for Fury in ten. Can you fight while they’re all gone, if need be?”

Barton nods. “ _Yeah, if I have to. Though I’d prefer **not** to_.”

“The bad guys don’t care for your preferences,” she replies.

“ _You sound like Stark_ ,” Barton quips, lips quirking.

She narrows her eyes fractionally while Thor laughs, deep and loud. He sounds a bit like a television Santa Claus.

“I’ll be in Rogers’ cell if you’d like to repeat that in person,” she says cooly, ending the call only after getting a glimpse of the nervous look on Barton’s face (and Thor’s grin. It’s better to have him in a good mood than a downtrodden one).

\-----

The thing is, they weren’t sure how it would happen if it _did_ happen: slowly or all at once. The mind is as unpredictable as it is predictable. It’s made of tides and off season rains, sand dunes that collapse under the lightest tread, dust and clouds and neuron storm clusters. They didn’t know, they couldn’t know, and whatever price Rogers pays for their ineptitude should be theirs for putting him through it, not his.

But the world isn’t a fair place, and sometimes not even a cruel one, but Rogers’ mind is, cruel, that is.

\-----

He jolts in her lap then screams and she holds herself still, trying to time when to move. It’s not safe being around an out of control super soldier.

His eyes snap open and she moves, doesn’t get far before fingers snap vice-like around her wrist and she curses internally. She lets herself be moved like a child’s doll, waiting for an opening-

Her back hits something hard and an arm wraps around her and-

She freezes, eyes widening before taking stock.

The Soldier is wrapped around her from behind, but it’s not an attack like she thought, not completely; it _is_ like being a doll held by a child, one that’s shaking-

Crying?

She holds her breath, listening.

There’s low, faint, raspy and repetitive breathing against her shoulder. 

The arm around her tightens-

 _He is_ , she realizes. The Soldier, Rogers, is crying.

The arm around her could slowly squeeze the life out of her like a boa constrictor; he’s unstable, but moving could have its own repercussions. How should she proceed?

_A. Try to escape, potentially get injured ranging from moderate to death._

_B. Sit still and wait for it to pass on its own, potentially risk the same injuries._

_C. Try to talk to the Soldier or sing a lullaby._

_D. Signal Jarvis for help._

_E. Signal Jarvis to knock the Soldier out (and more than likely get injured in the process)._

All of her options have the same amount of risk.

She takes a moment to think.

In the end, she chooses to stay still, keeps her body loose and relaxed so she doesn’t trigger a subconscious response, then gradually starts to hum low and soft. The Soldier goes still and quiet, enough to spike adrenaline throughout her system, ready and waiting, but then he does something she’s not expecting: he buries his face in her neck. His stubble is scratchy and coarse where it barely brushes her skin above her collar, and the rough shock of it is almost enough to make her shift, but she keeps still. She can smell him this close, he’s in desperate need of a shower, but-

 _Giant cat_ , she thinks. Almost any other time and it might be funny.

She keeps humming and slowly, very gradually, the Soldier starts to relax, one strained muscle at a time.

\--

“What happened? Another nightmare?” Wilson asks as soon as the cell door is closed and locked behind her.

“He finally cracked,” she replies, heading down the hall for the elevator. 

He perks up as he follows. “Really?”

“Yes,” she returns, “He cried.”

Sam straightens. “Now he can hopefully start-”

“Healing,” she finishes for him, “Or reshaping the damage. You didn’t notify Barnes?” she asks.

“Almost did,” he replies, “When the _Tower_ AI is the one sending you a distress signal, you think about bringing back up.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” she says, elevator doors closing, “It would have put Barnes on edge and the Soldier might not have reacted well.”

“We’re going to have to do something about him.”

She glances over.

“Barnes,” Wilson clarifies, looking back, “He’s been winding up since this all started and I don’t think he can take much more.”

She’s aware. She’s been keeping close, discreet tabs on him. She knows about the punching bags.

“Is he back?” she asks.

“No,” Wilson returns, “And I’m not sure when he will be.”

The elevator slows to a stop and she steps out while he remains inside. “Tend to Rogers,” she instructs, “I’ve softened him up for you,” she teases.

“Pretty sure he’s gonna be back to a wall when I get there,” Wilson half-mumbles, then, “He only shows his gentler side to you.”

“Maybe we should see if he’ll show it to Barnes?” she phishes, but Wilson’s already shaking his head. He pauses though, to her mild surprise.

“I don’t know what will happen at this point and there’s a lot riding on this. On both sides,” he starts, eyes thoughtful and focused somewhere past her shoulder, “Maybe we should. Maybe it will kick something loose like it did with you.” 

His eyes focus on hers. The momentary, studying stare is vaguely uncomfortable, like fabric skirting over her skin, but she’s had worse.

“I’m concerned that you’re blocking him,” he says, “His memories of you are strong, probably because of where you two were and how you met. It makes me wonder if those memories and feelings aren’t blocking the ones about Bucky. On the other hand,” he continues, “That could be the very thing that unlocks the rest of it.”

“It’s a possibility,” she replies, “Do what you think is best.”

Wilson nods. “I’m trying.”

She’s aware of that, too. He’s trying very hard despite not knowing them and barely knowing Barnes, not owing them a thing. He’s a good man. She’ll have to keep an eye on him, too, for reasons different from originally intended, and try to give him a break. She’ll be able to manage it easier if things go well enough between Barnes and Rogers.

She turns to go and hears the elevator doors close and the elevator start its descent behind her.

\-----

Bucky shoves his things into his duffel with maybe a little more force than necessary, but he’s tired and he just wants to get _back_. He hasn’t been sleeping well since-...since. He hasn’t been sleeping well.

He waves to Rumlow and the remaining guys as he heads out of the locker room, taking the stairs down to the parking garage (he’s faster than the elevator if he just jumps over the railing and drops. _Yay serum_ ).

When he gets back to the Tower, he tries to sleep, he does, but there’s restlessness still pounding around his skull and trickling along his bones, so he heads down to sit outside Steve’s cell for an hour, then heads to the gym for a couple more to try and blow off some steam.

After, once he’s showered (again), he moves to crouch down at his duffle where he left it inside his bedroom door, taking out his dirty uniform to put in the laundry-

Something clatters lightly on the floor and he looks down, and stares, frowning slowly.

A USB?

He picks it up and moves over to the laptop he rarely uses that came with the apartment, opens it, turns it on, and plugs the USB into the side slot. Jarvis will be able to handle it if there’s a virus on it. He taps into the computer folder and double taps the USB icon, frowning at the lone file inside before double-tapping that too, a media player pulling up.

\--

_“...-tain-”_

_“...-tain Barn-”_

_“-aptain Barnes-”_

He blinks slowly, staring down at-...

He swallows, tastes bile. His throat’s already healed the burn. He didn’t make the toilet this time, had to settle for the sink.

Bucky reaches for the faucet, shaking fingers turning the handle. He watches his stomach contents circle down the drain.

“ _...-omanoff._ ”

He slowly turns the water off.

He should-

“... _-oor. Captai-.._.”

He takes a step back and his knees buckle and he loses his footing, lands hard on his ass on the floor and barely feels it.

“... _-ock. Agent Roma-._..”

Someone’s talking. Jarvis?

...Steve

_He double-taps the lone file inside, a media player pulling up. The audio is grainy at first, and then he hears screaming-_

_Steve_.

He scrambles up and runs. 

Before he knows it, he’s on the sub level and the cell door’s opening and there’s Steve oh God _Steve_ -

Bucky sprints in and drops to his knees in front of him and gets his hands on Steve’s shoulders, raising one to his cheek. “ _Steve_ ,” he releases on an exhale, relieved because he’s _here_ and not-

His world flips as Steve moves beneath his hands and Bucky’s shoulder hits the floor, airway quickly cutting off. 

“ _Steve_ -” he tries, choking. 

He barely hears the cell door slide open a minute later and running steps, rapid Russian, but between the lack of air and Steve’s hard, wide eyes on him, Bucky’s having trouble focusing.

Eventually, the grip around his neck lets up and he coughs, letting go of Steve’s leg as hands pull him back and drag him away. His vision slowly unblurs and Bucky gets a glimpse of Steve’s eyes still on him before the door slides closed and takes them away.

“Well, I guess that answers that question,” comes Nat’s voice. Bucky drags his eyes up to her face, rubbing at his neck. Her own eyes are ready to meet his. “Why did you run in there?” she questions, the ‘ _why did Jarvis call me_ ’ an undercurrent underneath.

Bucky wants to answer, but then he remembers why he’s down here at all and he squeezes his eyes shut on a hard shudder. “I found something,” he forces out, has to quietly or not at all. 

Natasha’s eyes narrow where he can’t see.

\--

The laptop is easy enough to find, even in the dark of the apartment. City lights glint in slashes across its black screen like tears in curtains.

She slides a finger across the mousepad and narrows her eyes in the bright resulting light. Whatever file Barnes was talking about is still open. She double-taps the play button. It seems almost as final a gesture as an execution shot ( _bang-bang_ ).

There’s silence at first, then the sound of recording, a vaguely scratchy, non-sound. The screen stays black, but there’s the quiet, distant scraping of metal on metal, a fan turning in low _whoops_ , a chair creaking in rust and age. More metal scraping on metal, a low clatter, the scratch of wax paper peeling from adhesive. A heart monitor starts, sharp and electric, as familiar a sound as her own pulse playing away on line like a record.

Silence again, then old, squealing wheels rolling across cement, the _whoop. Whoop. Whoop_ of the fan. It sounds large and old. A warehouse? A breath catches and the heart monitor ticks up and she tenses, stills.

The heartbeats even back out.

 _...beep…beep...beep...beep._..

A quiet clatter.

 _Whoop. Whoop. Whoop_.

“ _Beginning Project Thirty-eight_ ,” a scratchy, male voice reports.

There’s just the sound of the heart monitor and the fan after that, the occasional metallic clatter of something being set down or picked up. It makes her think of days long gone, of the Red Room, of a cold steel table under her back and metal instruments gleaming like teeth ready to rend in the corner of her eye, cold, unfeeling things. It was like glimpsing into a mirror and realizing, knowing what you were becoming, that it was coming for you one altered organ and body piece at a time, until it swallowed you up and you were changed altogether. Until you were gone, and a new you was in your place, and this is what you were now.

The heart monitor picks up again and she focuses. It gets faster and faster and faster until-

 _Scream_.

The hair on the back of her neck rises on end. Something metal jerks sharp and erratic and persistent and she curls her fingers, resists rubbing at her own wrists. More screaming, wet sounds, like liquid _slippingslidingsloshing_ , a heavier metallic _scrape_ and then bones cracking and the screams turn slightly gurgled before dying out altogether.

“ _Asset appears to be moving in and out of consciousness_ ,” the male voice reports, drones, “ _A repeated note: Sedation is made impossible due to Doctor Abraham Erskine’s serum formula’s efficiency_. _Should subject die, administer adrenaline and defibrillate._ ”

The Soldier’s voice chokes and there’s the sound of wet splashing on cement.

“ _Now that the necessary organs have been shifted and the rib cage opened, I will begin bone reinforcement and tracker placement._ ”

“Oh,” she says, voice low steel in the dark.

There’s the sound of something like a blowtorch starting, but thinner, smaller, flame kicking to life and Rogers’ scream sounds like it tears up his throat, shreds it to pieces, like they’re doing to him.

\--

She slows to a stop and takes a seat next to Barnes on the floor, rests her back against the wall. They sit quietly.

“I had Jarvis scan for the tracker, but it seems to have been removed,” she says after a little while. Barnes flinches, just a little. 

It wasn’t too long after Hydra got him, though, she thinks, maybe a few years into it, which means it was closer to when Rogers fell than the present, which means it’s that much worse for Barnes to know about it. That, and the possibility that they opened Rogers up again to take the tracker out. It could have been done during a mission, maybe he was injured in training or a knife went through the tracker, maybe it was crushed, but all of the possibilities are just varying degrees of ruin, for both Rogers and Barnes.

She lowers the back of her head to the wall and stares up across at the opposite one, keeping an eye on him out of the corner of her eye. She’s gotten used to silence in her line of work, shocked, angered, soundless, anticipatory; the silence of grief she’s not as personally familiar with. Her own is like a catch and release, a temporary stay and symptom that can be dismissed in the moment, because she cannot change circumstances and events that have already come to pass. There is little point in grieving the lost; it is more effective to focus on the present and shape the future. That’s what her job is, that’s what _she_ is, ever moving, shifting, changing to fit a need.

Other people’s grief, however, is a whole other matter. It is an adjacent line that has mostly been parallel to her own and rarely touching. She could put on a show and try to offer Barnes comfort accordingly, place a hand on his shoulder and be ‘the friend’, but she doesn’t want to. He wouldn’t like it if he was in the state to realize what she was doing, or when he realized it later, and he’s unstable enough now as it is. One more crack in his reality and he will break, if this doesn’t do it, and they can’t have another broken Captain America locked in a cel.

So she sits with him in silence, and stays, and waits; it is the only comfort she can offer in any semblance of honesty.

\--

She sets a tray of food down and Barnes’ head turns slightly. He huffs out a cracked, desolate sound that might be a short lived laugh.

“‘Food service’,” he mutters. She doesn’t get it, so it must be an inside joke with someone.

“You should eat something,” she says, but she’s not expecting him to. All the babying in the world probably wouldn’t work.

As expected, Barnes goes back to staring at the floor. His hair’s gotten longer, she notes, she can’t see his eyes.

She holds in a sigh. It’s going to be a long night. She quietly asks for Jarvis to pull up a holoscreen and checks on his scan of the USB drive. It’s finished, like she suspected, and there’s no way to trace where it came from, like she also suspected. She dismisses the screen and focuses on the wall across from her.

Still, if the USB was in Barnes’ bag, then someone he came into contact with put it there, and given the content, they know where the Soldier is, most likely _who_ he is and his relation to Barnes. The drive could have been slipped in Barnes’ bag on the way from S.H.I.E.L.D., a passerby on the street, highly trained or else he would have noticed, or maybe when he had set his bag down…

She narrows her eyes.

\-----

“I’m not sure it’s best that I come along,” Bruce says, eyebrows drawing down together.

“Sure it is,” Tony replies blithely, slinging an arm around his shoulders, “You’ve been cooped up in the lab for weeks, which is impressive. And that’s coming from me.”

“Mr. Stark, Doctor Banner,” tall, gorgeous, and beautifully accented greets with a smile, shaking both their hands, “My name is Felicia Gourmencau and I will be your liaison for your trip here.”

“It is absolutely refreshing to meet you,” Tony replies, bringing her hand up to press a light kiss to the back of it, “ _Enchanting_.”

Her smile grows faintly and she gestures towards a black limo. “If you will follow me?”

They do, following the click of her highheels. 

“Do I need to tell you to behave yourself?” Bruce mumbles in his direction.

“No need,” Tony replies in kind, keeping his smile on, “I’m a one-woman man these days.”

Bruce gives a low considering sound and Tony elbows him in the side before they slip into the back of the car.

\-----

“It was in my bag,” Barnes grounds out, voice rough. He barely gives an effort to clear it before lifting his head, eyes dark. “Which means someone put it in there, and I only put it down in my locker in S.H.I.E.L.D.” God, the implications are running through his head, dizzying, world tilting, but with everything- It’s just another damn drop in the ocean.

Natasha watches him a moment before shifting her eyes to the opposite wall.

“That means…” Wilson trails off, and sighs heavily, “Is everything with you guys this complicated?”

“You’d be surprised,” Barnes mumbles.

“At this point? Not likely,” Sam mumbles back.

“Fury called about the Soldier,” Natasha decides to say. Barnes’ eyes cut sharply up to her and she looks back. Barnes slowly pushes himself up and starts heading for the elevator. “No,” she says, and he stops, looking back, “Not like that.”

“Even you can’t take on a whole safety security agency by yourself,” Sam agrees.

Bucky bares his teeth a little and Sam levels him with a heavy stare. Bucky closes his eyes for a minute and tries to take a deep breath-

“ _Agent Romanoff_ ,” Jarvis’ voice cuts the silence, and they all look up sharply, “ _Captain Rogers’ levels are highly elevated_.”

They all run to the door, Bucky too because to hell with it, he’s had enough, he’s helping. Natasha gets it open and Steve’s screams fill the space, and they all run inside. Bucky drops at his side, reaching for him because he’s thrashing like he’s on fire. He pushes at Steve’s only leg and arm, fingers curling in the fabric of his clothes while he stares, trying to- trying-

“Hold him down!” Natasha orders.

“I’m trying!” Bucky snaps back, out of his daze. He shifts and gets a better grip on Steve’s arm and leg and pushes him to the floor, trying to contain his thrashing and ignore the nausea in his stomach. He nearly gets a knee to the jaw and lays his body over Steve’s, using most of his strength just to try and keep him down, _fuck he’s strong_. He forgot. He’d never had to do something like this when Steve was Captain America, and he knew the _Winter Soldier_ was strong but he’s still trying to match that up with _Steve_.

 _They’re the same_ , he tells himself viciously, and tries not to recoil from all the points of contact, from himself.

Natasha shoves her belt into Steve’s mouth and then at the drop of a hat he goes completely still, and Bucky tries not to think of the implications. He’s already thrown up breakfast and now isn’t the time to repeat it.

\--

Bucky swallows as the cell door slides closed, curling his fingers into fists when he realizes his hands are trembling. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to take in a deep breath, holding it and letting it out in a rush. A hand touches his shoulder and he jolts a little, head whipping around. Sam stares back at him, tightening his grip and Bucky relaxes, slowly, one group of muscles at a time.

“Do you need anything?” Sam asks quietly.

“Do you?” Bucky croaks back. 

Sam’s mouth twists and Bucky feels a pang of guilt in his chest. 

“I mean it,” Bucky makes himself say, it’s not too hard, it’s just getting the words around the roiling in his gut and chest. “If you need anything Sam, including stepping away, leaving, going home, just say the word.” _God knows I wish I could go home_ , he thinks unwillingly, desperately.

Sam doesn’t reply right away, gaze shifting off a little from Bucky’s. He looks back and pats Bucky’s shoulder. “If I do, I’ll let you know,” he says, firm, decisive.

Bucky lets out a relieved breath, and nods. He doesn’t want to drag Sam down any further than he might have already. He doesn’t deserve that. He only wishes he could be as decisive about all this as Sam is. The only thing he really knows is that Steve’s in pain, coming undone in ways Bucky can’t really comprehend, can only imagine the horrors of, and that it’s his fault, that it’s Hydra’s fault, and they-

His fingers curl tighter and something in him, the broken shards of him, stop drifting. They snap together and harden like steel, and he sets his jaw.

 _Hydra will pay_ , he thinks, _that’s_ what he knows, even if he’s got to hunt every last damn one of them down by himself, _They won’t get away with doing this_. And they might be closer than he thought. It’s still- dizzyingly horrifying to think about, but also pretty damn convenient. At least he won’t have to go all the way to Austria to find them again.

\-----

“He’s not giving it up,” Rumlow reports, coming to a stop in front of a long, steel desk, “He keeps himself too distant from the team for me to infiltrate on time with the timetable.”

Secretary Pierce taps the pads of his steepled fingers rhythmically together, blue eyes as cold as his gray suit, perfectly matching his steel desk and gray office. He pushes himself up after a minute, crossing his lined hands behind his back as he heads over to the window. “You know what to do,” he says, and Rumlow grins sharp. 

That’s what he was hoping for. 

_Thanks Barnes_ , he thinks, turning and heading out of the room.

\-----

_It stares down into the casket, light slanting across Father’s body from the stained glass window high above. The building- church, they called it, is dark and empty, long after the original service and into the early morning light. Footsteps approach and it is acutely aware of their proximity, feels the presence and warmth of a body stop a foot to its right._

_“This is the last you will see of him,” Lukin says, Father’s protege. He is the Handler now._

_It doesn’t say anything, just looks over Father’s features, traces the lines in his aged face with its gaze slowly, meticulously. It may forget him like it loses most things, but sometimes- in the secret dark of its mind, sometimes things come back before they are ripped away again._

_“Your procedures will change,” Lukin says, and bird wings shift up in the rafters of the high, steepled ceiling, the sound quietly echoing out, “He was too soft with you.”_

_It keeps looking over Father’s features, relaxed like in sleep. It thinks it remembers- music playing, sharp and crackled through the dark center of a blossoming gramophone._

_“I will never understand his methods with you,” a sneer in Lukin’s voice, “Treating a tool like a child.”_

_It wants to touch, one last time. Raises its left hand and reaches forward._

_“Stop,” Lukin orders sharply, and it freezes, fingers two inches shy of the rich wood of the coffin. “Return to base,” Lukin commands, and it lowers its hand, turning away. Lukin’s steps follow after a moment._

_Father Karpov died with a smile on his face, like he’d heard one last joke. In the stillness that follows its retreating steps, echoing in the growing chasm between its back and the coffin glowing in the morning light, covered in a myriad of bright, stained glass colors, violets and reds and yellows, some part of the Soldier wonders, faintly, if the joke was it._

It sucks in a breath as it wakes, eyes focusing on the gray of the floor. It quickly becomes aware of her, but doesn’t move closer, or away. Neither does she. Her presence is not like Father’s, or Lukin’s, but it is there all the same as it stares at the floor. The memory hovers and drifts, settles, and doesn’t go away.

\--

After an hour, the Soldier’s breathing slowly evens out against the outside of her thigh, and she draws her fingers slowly through his hair one last time. It took him a while this time to come closer, and she wonders what he dreamed about.

She carefully draws herself away and stands, silently moving to the door. When it opens, Natasha finds Barnes standing on the other side of it. He can’t go past it yet, outside of emergencies, and she wonders if he even wants to anymore.

She steps out of the room and the door closes and locks behind her. “I’ve been coming at night,” she says, shoulder to shoulder with him.

“I know,” Barnes replies, quiet and even.

She glances over at him. “I thought you might hate me for it,” she teases quietly, phishing, gauging.

“I might,” he returns, glancing back over at her. His lips quirk faintly, a little sharp, but his eyes aren’t, just tired, for the moment. “A little.” 

It’s not quite like how it was with Peggy, he thinks, what’s between Natasha and this Steve, more adjacent to the feeling. He’d hated and loved Peggy a lot. It was simpler then, even, almost.

Natasha inclines her head and continues past him. He turns and sits down with his back against the wall, tilting his head back and staring up at the ceiling. They need to plan, come up with worst case scenarios, even though his head is already full of them, but Stark and Banner will be back from the facility scouting in a few hours. Until then, right now, he just...wants to sit here, as close to Steve as he can get.

\-----

He pounds the bag, listens to the beat of the _thumpthumpthumps_. He taught Steve to box, before the war, then he and Carter-

He stops with a _thump_.

Fuck. _Carter_.

_Did she know?_

Steve burned hot, bright as a blaze, but Bucky’s always burned cold, slow and sweeping, like a rolling fog, just as all encompassing.

 _She didn’t_ , he wants to think, _She would never have left Steve behind, especially not like this_. They shared that secret, but it’s darker in his case, he thinks, because she wouldn’t put herself through all this for Steve, not as much as he has. She knew where and when to stop, and Bucky stopped caring about things like that a long time ago.

An explosion rocks the Tower and Bucky’s head whips up to the windows, sees smoke start to billow outside, dark gray clouding the sunlight and washing the gym dim. He runs for the elevator, stumbling when another explosion hits and knocks out the power. He wedges the tips of his fingers between the wall and elevator door and pulls, shifting his grip once there’s a small gap and widening it, pulling the door the rest of the way open. The Tower automatically goes on lockdown in case of emergency or attack, but the backup power should-

The lights come back on and he gets into the elevator, jabbing the button for the armory. “Jarvis, report,” he orders, steeling himself.

“ _Damage to floors one through ten, eighty through one-hundred and five_ ,” Jarvis answers, “ _The Hulk_ -”

A loud _roar_ cuts Jarvis off from somewhere below and that kind of answers that. At least those two are back. He hears a crack of thunder and can put a guess as to where Thor’s at.

“ _Men in black uniforms have infiltrated the Tower. Their likely target is Captain Rogers_. _Ms. Romanoff is trying to stall them in sublevel one_ , _Mr. Stark is engaging the teams in the lobby, and Thor is engaged with the mobile units outside. A radius around the Tower has been cleared of civilians_.”

Bucky’s fingers curl. When the elevator slows to a stop and the doors open, he runs out, grabs one of his uniforms and throws it on over his gym clothes, pulling the helmet on and then grabbing a rifle, a few clips of ammo, and the shield before darting back in. “Take me down,” he orders, putting the shield on his back and loading the rifle, stowing the extra clips in his thigh pockets. The elevator starts heading down.

“ _A team is heading down to sublevel three through the stairwell_ ,” Jarvis reports, and Bucky checks the gun before lowering it, straightening, “ _I have locked the stairwell door, but it will not contain them for long. You should arrive before they do_.”

Bucky’s eyes jerk up as the elevator jerks and grinds to a stop with a sharp, metallic squeal through the walls. 

“ _My systems are being compromised_ ,” Jarvis reports, “ _I can’t- I can’t_ -”

Jarvis’ voice goes distorted and then shuts off completely, leaving Bucky silence.

 _That’s not good_ , he thinks, shifting and pulling the shield off his back. He looks down at it and pulls it onto his forearm, tightening his grip on the strap. He lifts and slams it down into the elevator floor. The floor dents down on the first, dents further on the second, then the shield breaks through on the third, and Bucky makes a bigger opening with it. The shaft down is long and dark, but.

He curls his fingers.

He’s wearing gloves.

He puts the shield on his back, tightens his grip on the rifle as he steels himself, then drops down through the hole, catching one of the cables in the middle with a quiet grunt as his bodyweight jerks hard at his arm. He coils his legs around the cable and loosens his grip, and starts sliding down.

He’s not letting them take Steve, not ever again.

The good thing about the sublevels is there’s only two ways in or out: one elevator and one stairwell, not two of each like the resident floors, nor six like the lobby for the Tower workers. No hidden passageways, either. The downside is: there’s two ways down. Jarvis said they were going down the stairwell, but that’s not stopping another team from breaking into the elevator and doing what he’s doing, and since the doors lock in emergencies, he’ll have to break the shaft ones open and won’t be able to lock them once he’s got Steve. With the others occupied, he’s fucked if he gets swarmed.

Jarvis said he _should_ be the first one down, but that’s no guarantee either. 

When Bucky reaches the bottom and pries the doors open, he stops, because Steve’s cell room door is open straight ahead, and what he can see of the room is empty.

 _Fuck_.

He turns sharply, slips the shield back on his arm, and rams into the stairwell door with it. It takes him two tries, but something metal gives on the other side and he bursts into the stairwell with a metallic _clang_ and the loud _crash_ of the door hitting the opposite wall. He hears voices and footsteps above and starts running, winding his way up.

He catches them on sublevel two, sees them dragging Steve’s limp body down the hall and raises his rifle, taking aim and firing. He gets two down before they drop Steve and starting firing back and Bucky raises the shield, kneeling low to cover himself with it. 

There were five, that’s three more, and now Steve’s out of the line of fire.

He peeks up in the brief break in gunfire and aims his rifle- 

And freezes. Three of them are holding Steve up and using him as a damn _body shield_.

Bucky ducks back down, gritting his teeth while he tries to think. The gunfire starts moving further down the hall, the sounds bouncing off the walls different, and- 

He can’t let them leave, and he can’t let them take Steve either.

He peeks up between another spray of gunfire and gets one agent in the ear, hears his shout just as the second bullet hits him in the forehead and sees Steve’s arm drop with the body before he has to duck behind the shield again. He hears the gunfire moving away again and tries to shuffle after it, grunting when a bullet nearly hits his boot and keeps going. Then he hears the door slam shut and the sudden silence makes his ears ring. Bucky gets up and charges straight into the door, trap be damned-

The stairwell entrance door caves under his rage like paper and a bullet hits his shoulder and he lets out a shout, then hears someone else let out a shout and sees-

Steve falling with his leg wrapped around one of the agent’s throats, the agent’s face quickly turning blue as they both hit the floor. Bucky shoots the agent still standing and the one on the ground and then tenses, staring at Steve while he listens. The last agent’s bootsteps recede up the next batch of stairs, followed by a door slamming shut.

Bucky takes a breath, focusing on Steve for a moment. “Steve, you…” he trails off.

The door above bangs open and both their gazes jerk up. Bucky sees something small and grey come clattering down over the side of the railing and moves without thinking, throwing himself down over Steve while bringing the shield up-

The blast sends him sideways into the wall with a groan he feels in his chest and throat but doesn’t hear because his ears are ringing. He tries to get his eyes open, and it’s just in time to get a kick to his gut, then another across his face that sends him slumping. He spits out a mouthful of blood while his hearing goes in and out, muffled and muted and still ringing, but he can kind of make out-

He turns his head and stills, gun muzzle pressing to the ‘A’ on his helmet.

“ _-ey -ap_ ”

Bucky narrows his eyes a little as he focuses past the gun to- Rumlow’s face? His eyes widen before narrowing and Rumlow’s smirk spreads. Rumlow jerks his chin and the agent that got away steps forward and crouches down, glaring at Bucky while he unbuckles the helmet’s chin strap and yanks his helmet up and off. Bucky grunts quietly when it tugs sharply at his ears, bangs coming down to frame his face, a stripe of brown hanging loose between his eyes over his nose.

“-at’s be- er,” he thinks he hears Rumlow say. “-robably -an’t -ear -it righ- -ow,” Rumlow continues, but Bucky’s ears are still ringing too hard to make it all out. It’s enough to put the sentence together, at least.

“ _Hydra_ ,” Bucky gets out, voice rough and holding in a cough from the dust in his throat from the blast.

“Yup,” Rumlow replies, pulling the hammer back on his gun, “-ye Barn-”

Rumlow jerks hard to the left and the shot goes into the wall at Bucky’s right, that ear’s hearing shot to hell twice over from the proximity as he stares wide-eyed- then _moves_ , seizing the opportunity. He brings the shield up under the jaw of the first agent and then dives forward- 

He jerks back as he brings up the shield to block Rumlow’s gunfire, gritting his teeth as he glances over.

Steve’s staring up at Rumlow, face white as a sheet. His wide eyes slowly shift over to his and Bucky’s- Bucky’s never seen him so terrified.

He grits his teeth harder and shoves _up_ , collides with something solid and sends it _back_ \- He hears Rumlow let out out a yell and then a choking sound, gunfire ceasing. Bucky risks a quick glance up over the top of the shield and then looks again, eyes widened a little.

Natasha’s got a garotte around Rumlow’s neck, legs wrapped around his waist from behind as she strangles him, Rumlow’s hand trying to pull at one of her arms. He jerks her sideways and she takes him with her, both of them hitting the rail. It takes another twenty seconds and then Rumlow’s eyes roll back in his head and he drops. She lands on her feet while he lands in a heap and she crouches down, shoving him over to get his arms tied behind his back. She looks up at Bucky, then over at Steve, then back again. “Report.”

Bucky jerks a little, surprised to hear it in one ear and not the other, to hear it all at all. “There’s no agents behind me as far as I know,” he replies, “Steve helped m-”

The sound of bile coming up jerks his attention back to Steve to see him on his side, hand braced on the floor as he empties his meager stomach contents. After he’s done, he says something low in Russian, a string of saliva hanging from this lips to the floor. Natasha says something back and he takes in a shaky breath, then collapses to the side, face just missing the mess. Bucky hurries over, glancing at Natasha to make sure she’s got Rumlow before he kneels down to check on Steve.

\-----

“They’re getting bolder,” Natasha says.

Bucky nods, looking out the window at the smoke still clearing in the sky. Thor and Banner are helping to clear the rubble while Tony does a system’s check. Jarvis is still offline. Bucky feels like he should be helping, but this will have to do for now. “What does that mean?”

Natasha’s quiet, eyes thoughtful on the windows. She shifts and taps at her ear and Bucky looks over. She seems to listen to something, then nods and looks over at Bucky. “Barton found something,” she says cryptically.

Bucky frowns.

\-----

It opens its eyes, staring across at the dark gray wall.

They came for it. It should have gone with them, but it fought-

 _Desperate, angry blue-gray eyes come through the door and the gun next to it cocks and fires. The man lets out a pained shout and it’s heart rate picks up_ -

It had moved without thought, and when thought came, it was quiet, decisive, _against_.

It looks down at the floor, brows drawing low together. Emotions still swirl in its chest, not the all consuming anger from before or the rolling, earth shaking waves of the tears. These are different, these are... _warm_ , hard, sharp as knives in some places but round, like a shield?

A word floats across its thoughts and it stills.

 _Protect_.

It stares.

\-----

They stand either side of the bed, staring down where Barton lays propped up against the headboard. He’s got less bandages on, but his leg is still in a cast and there’s still a bandage wrapped around his head, and probably around his ribs and the burns Bucky can’t see, too. It makes the guilt curl up like a prey animal in his chest, baring its teeth. He knows Steve did this, he knows, but seeing it, like with everything else, just makes that knife in his chest twist harder.

“What did you find?” Natasha prompts, drawing Bucky out of his stupor.

Barton thumbs the headphones next to his hip and look at her, then Bucky, then back again. “Fury’s part of something called Project Insight. It might be nothing, but it’s scheduled to go live in three days.” 

Bucky’s stomach tightens. 

It might be nothing, but the timing is…

He glances over at Natasha who’s stone faced, like a sphynx. She’s been with S.H.I.E.L.D. a lot longer than he has, has known Fury a lot longer than he has. “Is there a chance Fury’s Hydra?” Bucky makes himself ask. He doesn’t like the idea. He might not get along with the guy but that wasn’t the impression Bucky had of him. Then again, he didn’t think Rumlow would turn out to be Hydra either. It’s something that makes more sense in hindsight, the pieces clicking together in a way that go with the new information, but not something he’d picked up beforehand.

His fingers curl.

Guess he’s not as good at reading people as he thought. It puts everything he thought he knew into question, under a new light he’s no longer in control of, if he ever was.

“I don’t know,” Natasha replies evenly, “Do you know who’s project lead?” she asks down at Barton.

“Secretary Pierce,” Barton answers, low and quiet with his brows drawn down. He swallows while Bucky’s thoughts spin out.

‘Pierce’. He’s heard the name, has met with the man exactly once, when he first started doing missions for S.H.I.E.L.D. 

“ _Your work will be a gift to mankind_ ,” Pierce had said, smiling genially, cordially, the first politician that didn’t seem like a politician, that seemed like he’d actually cared about what S.H.I.E.L.D. was doing, the first politician Bucky’d met that he hadn’t immediately written off as a scumbag.

He backs up and takes a seat on the edge of the bed behind him while Natasha’s gaze goes thoughtful, pulling apart a puzzle piece by piece and analyzing the ones they know of. Barton looks over at him, expression more serious than Bucky’s used to seeing on him. It just makes everything feel more real.

“If this goes as deep as that, we need to stop the Insight launch,” Barton says.

“We need to find out more,” Natasha says.

“If Tony can get Jarvis working…” Barton trails off.

“Maybe,” Natasha concedes, shifting her eyes back to the two of them.

“We’ll need to be careful,” Bucky finally contributes, drawing his focus back and their eyes to him, “If this really is what we think it is, they’ll be on us before we know it as soon as we slip up.” _They might already know we’re onto them_ , he doesn’t say, doesn’t need to. They sent people after Steve, they have to know _something_.

“We should move him,” Natasha says, and Bucky’s eyes snap up, “He’s a liability here, and vulnerable.”

“Move who? The Soldier?” Barton asks, looking up at her, “Where to? If Hydra’s been able to break into the Tower, Tony’s safe houses won’t be much better.”

“I have a place we could take him to,” Natasha suggests.

Bucky stares up at her, thoughts whirling.

Steve’s not safe here, and he’s vulnerable without his arm and leg, and with those words Hydra shuts him down with. Hydra’s already come after him, know he’s here. Nat’s right, Bucky knows logically, Steve shouldn’t stay here, but something about it makes his stomach twist. He doesn’t want Steve out of his sight again, doesn’t want to _lose_ him again, but it’s not just that. It’s-

He stands up and Nat and Barton look to him. “Where are you going?” Natasha asks.

“I’m going to ask him what _he wants_ to do,” Bucky replies, pulling the room door open and looking over at the two of them. Natasha’s paused, like she’s considering, thinking, and Barton’s staring at him like he’s grown a second head, until his expression eases and he looks down at his lap, then back up, nods.

Bucky turns back around and leaves the room, heading for the elevator. He takes it down, all the way, waits for the door to open and then walks down the hall, slowing to a stop in front of the cell. He looks over the door, the locks only keeping Steve accessible by backup power. 

Bucky takes a steadying breath, fingers curling. The broken edges in him want to shift apart, scatter, pierce him all over like a one man target.

He shifts over and presses his fingerpad to the lock, leans close for the retinal scan and holds his breath.

The locks switch green and the door slides open, and he sees Steve, curled up on his side near the back right corner of the room where they’d left him. Bucky swallows, then takes a step inside. Steve- the Soldier, doesn’t move for a minute, two. Bucky steels himself.

“Steve,” he says, as calmly as he can manage. Steve doesn’t move. “Winter Soldier, whoever you are.” Steve turns his head, just his head, and only enough to glance back at Bucky over his shoulder. Bucky has to swallow again, heart pounding harder in his chest. He takes a slow breath. “I know you don’t know me,” he continues. It hurts to say, like forcing broken glass down his throat, but. “At least I’m pretty sure you don’t, but I’m your friend. I’ve always been your friend, since we were six and eight years old. I’ve followed you into fights almost your whole life.” Except the ones he couldn’t, the ones he should’ve been there for. 

His fingers curl tighter and he makes them loosen up, go relaxed as he stares down at Steve, which isn’t right.

He kneels down where he is, plants himself on both knees like he’s going to beg for forgiveness. He would, he will. 

“ _I’m so sorry_ ,” he gets out past his closing throat, the burn starting at the backs of his eyes. He makes himself swallow past all that, too, clears his throat quietly. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I went back for you, I swear I did, but you were gone. You were gone and I thought- ‘Well, that’s it. That’s it’.” He forces himself to take another breath. Steve’s still watching him, has barely moved, just turned his head a fraction more towards him. Bucky’ll take it, he’ll take anything Steve will give him. 

“I tried to follow where I thought you went, I did,” Bucky continues quieter, “I took down Red Skull and then the plane full of his bombs. Peggy didn’t want me to, but I wanted to see you.” Everything after the train, the rage, the sorrow that twisted his very being apart, every fiber and atom of him scattered across the snowy mountains while he screamed it all into the icy wind. All of it, the waiting, the plan to take down Red Skull, infiltrate his base, kill the agents on the Valkyrie and then sink that piece of shit like the hunk of metal it was. All that, and in the end his was a child’s wish, just something so painfully simple, so singular it rung throughout his whole being, a single, honest, painful truth:

 _I just want to see Steve_.

And now here they are.

“The bastards that did this to you, that tried to take you, they’re doing something real bad Steve,” he says, absently notes the warmth down his cheeks and blinks the blur in his eyes away, brows drawing together. “I don’t know what it is yet, but I know it ain’t good. It’s ain’t ever been good. And my friends, upstairs, they- _I_ want to stop them, I want to stop them. My team wants to send you somewhere safe, but I just keep thinking: but then we’re no better than Hydra, right?” 

Steve blinks slowly, eyes widened a fraction since the start, and focused on him, really focused on him for the first time since all of this. Not like he wants to tear Bucky apart, and not like he’s been told to, but really- really _seeing him_. It makes Bucky’s breath hitch and he swallows again. To feel that, those eyes on him again, even if they don’t know him, _God_ , it’s the closest to home he’s felt in a long time.

“I don’t want to ship you around like a _thing_ ,” Bucky practically spits out, fingers curling again. He makes them relax, looking at Steve, feels almost like they’re in their own little world way down here, beneath the metal and cement and dirt. A coffin for two. “I’ll- it’s okay if you don’t get that right now, and I’ll understand if you can’t answer me, or won’t, but-” Bucky takes a breath, steels himself all over again. “Soldier, Steve,” he adds the last softer, “What do you want to do?” Steve’s eyes widen a little more and Bucky repeats it, “What do _you_ _want_ to do?”

Steve just keeps staring at him and Bucky tries to keep himself under control, tries to wrestle his hope and his heart down and takes one even breath, another, another. It might be too soon, Steve might not be able to answer, he might not- 

_It’s okay_ , Bucky thinks, feels a calm wash over him, settle over all the jagged pieces and uncertainties, the rage and sadness and despair. It’s okay, because Steve’s here. He might not be who he was, he might _never_ be who he was again, but it’s okay, Bucky realizes, because he’s here, and he’s looking at Bucky, and even if Steve never wanted anything to do with him ever again, Bucky would...be here, with Steve, in this world he wishes he could turn his back on. They’re both here.

It feels like a whispered revelation, the warmth of sunrise washing over his skin. It doesn’t take away all the hurt, the pain, the horror, the shittiness of the situation they’re in, but it...clears his mind, hushes the worries he can’t do anything about, and gives him...purpose. Steve’s here, _he’s here_ , and Bucky isn’t going anywhere without him ever again.

“I…” Steve starts, rough and disused and Bucky’s focus snaps back to him like it always used to, like it still does, like the focal point of his universe, the axis he spins on, his North. There it is. “I...want…” Steve trails off, eyebrows drawing together. He shifts his eyes up from the floor to look at Bucky again, looks him over, slowly, thoughtfully, then does the same with his face. Bucky holds still, as still as Steve seems to do a lot of these days, and something in Steve’s eyes changes. Bucky doesn’t know what it is, but something about it looks familiar, like a fire that went out, was gutted in the snowy mountains and a spark just landed on it, is growing, little by little, slow centimeter by slow centimeter, but growing just the same. 

“I...Protect,” Steve says, brows drawing together a little more, “I protected...I-” he cuts himself off, makes a small sound in the back of his throat that might be frustration. “You,” is all he says after a long minute of them staring at one another, “You.”

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to make it bleed and swallows, feels smaller than he is, younger than he feels anymore. “Yeah,” he says, soft, “You protected me, in the stairwell, but also-”

“Before,” Steve finishes for him, eyes going unfocused while Bucky’s widen a little. He waits quietly while Steve...does whatever he’s doing. It’s quiet for so long, by the time Steve speaks again Bucky’s used to hearing just the sounds of them breathing and little else. “I’m not...him,” Steve says, low and rough, “I am not.”

Bucky’s heart sinks, can’t help it, but he nods. He doesn’t say anything, just acknowledges it.

Steve doesn’t say anything more as they look at one another and Bucky takes a breath.

“I won’t expect you to be,” he starts, swallows, “I can’t- I know it’s a fool’s hope, after everything, I _know_ it is. I just- I think...even after everything, even _with_ everything, we’re not-” He stops, takes a breath, changes tactics. “If my ma saw me right now, she’d still know me, even if she didn’t recognize me.” He can see her if he tries, can see how she’d look at him if she saw him now. He focuses on Steve again, who’s watching him. “Do you know me?” Bucky asks, stepping out over a cliff’s edge and begging, hoping he won’t fall this time, not this time.

Steve searches his face, looks over his body again, and then looks back up at his eyes. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t blink, and Bucky sees that fire flicker again, sees him turn his head a fraction more towards Bucky.

“I-..” he trails off, mouth still open a little and eyes widening another fraction, then one more, like he’s...surprised.

Bucky smiles a little, small and wry, and Steve finally blinks once, twists a little at the waist to look at him better, like a flower to sunlight, if Bucky was feeling poetic.

“I’m right here,” Bucky says quietly, “I’ll always be right here with you, no matter what. Doesn’t matter if you can’t remember me, doesn’t matter if you try to kill me. I’m with you, pal, till the end of the line.”

Steve stares, eyes wider now, and Bucky sees him mouth the words, could swear he hears Steve’s exhale shudder out of him with it.

“Even if I kill you,” Steve, the Soldier says, and Bucky just quirks his lips up into a small smirk.

“You kill me, I’ll just haunt you,” he jokes, small and quiet and broken. Steve blinks again, then drags his eyes away over to the wall, brow furrowing. 

“ _Girls and wolves_ ,” Bucky thinks he hears Steve mutter, and then Steve’s eyes shift back to him. He nods once, slowly, and Bucky’s breath shudders out of him this time. He nods back. It’s not perfect, far fuckin’ from it, but it’s...it is.

Bucky shuffles forward slowly on his knees, watches Steve watch him. He stops a couple feet away and holds his hand out in offer. Steve looks down at it, then up at him, suspicious almost. Bucky just waits, like he did the first time they met, offering his hand out to a skinny little scrap of a kid with the bite of a feisty alley kitten with the whole world on his too small shoulders, and after a few minutes, the suspicion slowly clears and Steve slowly reaches out.

He takes Bucky’s hand, doesn’t break it, doesn’t throw him, doesn’t try to strangle him in a leg hold, just...takes it, slowly tightens his grip and…holds on, just like he did when they were kids.

\-----

_Can anybody stop me?_

_This pull is astronomical_

\-----

She walks down the hall, stopping halfway and palming open the door. The hallway light slants inside around the shape of her before the room lights tick on. Rumlow sits, still and bound where she left him, bruised in black. She steps inside, letting the door slide shut behind her.

“What ever are we going to do with you,” she says idly.

Rumlow’s head swivels towards her and he smirks, eyes trained on her like she’s the mouse in the trap. “Can’t wait to find out,” he replies.

She cracks her knuckles and his smirk widens.

\-----

His cell phone vibrates against his thigh and he pulls it out of his sweatpants pocket, tapping the call button and raising it to his ear.

“ _Sir, Agent Rumlow’s been captured_.”

“Good,” Pierce replies, raising the glass of milk to his lips and taking a sip, “Proceed according to plan.”

“ _Yes,_ _Sir_.”

He hangs up and sets his phone down on the table, looking out the floor to ceiling windows that line the living room. He turns and heads for the hall, down past eight rooms to his study at the end. He stops in front of the bookcase set against the back wall behind his desk and pulls out _War and Peace_ , reaching back to press the button behind it. The bookcase slides aside and he sets the book down over on his desk, then turns back to the wall. He taps in the code for the safe, scans his fingerprint, his eye, listens to the series of locks click undone and pulls the safe door open. He reaches in and pulls the red book out, looking over the black star set in the cover.

“Just two more days to go,” he says quietly to the room, setting his class down to flip the book open, eyes roaming over the worn and yellowing pages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “They think we’re инфорсер,” Natasha chimes in. - Enforcer, so says google translate which I don't trust. Please let me know if it's incorrect.


End file.
